The Watchmaker
by Demeter1973
Summary: Most of my favorite Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling stories are a variation on the events following Muskrat Farm . . . here's my twist on that scenario.  Rating bumped to M as of Chapter 11 and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

**The Watchmaker**

Demeter, 2010

Fanfiction based on the characters of Thomas Harris, owned solely by him and not by me

_Prologue_

A house rests on the shores of the Chesapeake, occupants nestled deep in its warm cocoon and sheltered against the frosty December chill. No Christmas decorations adorn this residence, though elegance fills each room. Snow will fall soon, though, draping the home and the surrounding woods in nature's gleaming shards, icicles and soft snowflakes, too small for the naked eye to see their own sharp edges.

One occupant sleeps while the other watches and waits. He moves from her side with only a moment's hesitation, and walks the dark corridors to the kitchen. He prepares herbal tea and muses over his provisions. They will likely be snowed in for several days, but he will not leave now. They have enough to weather the snow in comfort, of that he is certain. He cannot be sure if he or his companion will weather the events that will follow.

She has healed physically, and his ministrations have eased some of her emotional anguish. She has more yet to face. He decided to stop giving her the drugs days ago, slowly weaning her from the powerful hypnotics that facilitated his rather unconventional therapy sessions. The framework is set, construction complete, the mainspring wound such that the gears move according to the laws of her nature and her own will. What happens next is not within his power to predict. Chaos. Uncertainty. A dangerous game and a challenge rarely faced by the monster.

She still sleeps, so he moves to the drawing room to enjoy his tea and a warm fire. He considers the teacup, thinking that she has all of the ammunition she needs to craft his doom, or perhaps their salvation . . . he places that thought deep within his Memory Palace, engraving it on the lock that sometimes bars the doors to the depths, though it can do nothing for the reeking breaths released by the oubliettes. He seats himself at the harpsichord, banishing thoughts of bitter cold and snow from long ago. The screams are not as easy to banish. He plays now with passion bordering on fury, eyes blazing as he controls the sounds echoing through darkened halls. He will play a while yet, finding his calm center while he awaits the coming storms.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1 - Awakening

Clarice Starling wakes in the darkness, feeling the fog of sleep lift from her mind and body. She retains the memory of recent events, though today they come into focus, crashing dead on in painful clarity. Fear is closer, pain is closer, danger is closer, though physically she is better fed, rested, and cared for than she has been in years. Perhaps she can look in the mirror today. Perhaps she can go for a run, clear her mind and leave this strange place and stranger man sharing her space. _Will he let me?_ He showed her where to find her personal effects, her weapons, her car … did he do those things to lull her into a false sense of security? He saved her from Verger's men and pigs. Her mind pushes the memories away, though not solely due to fear of Dr. Lecter. The barn and the screams are still too much to face, and the memory of other lives taken, the lives she had taken.

She rises, still moving on autopilot as she makes her way to the bathroom. She opts for a shower, preferring to remain upright and alert, in spite of residual pain and stiffness from her injuries. For the first time since her arrival … here, wherever "here" is, she locks the door.

She still cannot look into the mirror, so she brushes her hair and teeth blind, forgoing makeup, though unable to resist the sensation of the skin cream he has provided. Another unpleasant memory invades. Gumb and the skin cream, preparation for slaughter in the guise of comfort. She pushes it aside and dresses in slacks and a simple sweater. She hesitates at the door, chiding herself even as she remains frozen. He already knows she's up, of course. _What does he want?_ That's the question.

Deep breaths, and she calms. She notices the clouds in hovering over the water and the woods. _Snow's coming. What if he goes mental with the snow? Heeeeeeeeeeeere's Hannibal! Fuck, what the fuck is THAT? This isn't funny._ Of course, her dark humor is a defense mechanism, always has been. But he has told her enough about the terrible war winter to give her a glimpse of his private hell. _Sympathy for the devil, my dear? _No, just curiosity. Why did he share? She reels with confusion and fear.

She opens the door, peering through the widening crack and audibly exhaling upon realization that she remains alone. She moves to the dresser, checking for her weapons and car keys, relieved and disturbed that they remain there. Pacing the room and deliberating her next move, Clarice freezes again when she sees the envelope and vials on her nightstand. These items had not been there before she showered. Upon closer inspection, she discovers the vials to be empty of their contents, presumably prescription drugs, though she does not recognize all of their names. Her heart begins to race at the memory of tiny stinging needles, a mixture of fear and anger filling her as she reads the labels for _Amobarbital, Scopolamine_ and _Sodium Pentothal_, familiar with their use as "interrogation aids." All of her innermost thoughts, feelings, longings she laid bare at his feet. Shaking, remembering, she tears open the envelope and removes the note within. _What the fuck has he done to me? I should get the fuck out of here and call for backup! _Nagging images of Mogli dead on the ground, bullet passing through the star on his chest, of the Sards bound to one another on the ground, the pigs coming, screams as the pigs come, and she must sit on the bed. Placing her head between her knees to breathe, to think, she fights the waves of panic threatening to overtake her. _Shit, focus! No backup then, no backup now, just run!_

The note remains in her peripheral vision, swimming into focus as she fights to regulate her breathing. She takes it with trembling fingers, unfolds it to reveal the familiar copperplate script. With a sense of falling, and as hot tears drop onto the fine paper, blotting the page, she reads.

_Dear Clarice,_

_ I trust you slept well, although I doubt you woke with the sense of comfort and safety with which you have become accustomed during your convalescence. No doubt you have inspected the vials of medication and surmised their effect on your state of mind, with the exception of naloxene. I administered this drug as a countermeasure to the acepromazine contained in the darts used by Mason's henchmen. Rest assured, any side effects that you are experiencing should diminish within a few days, as I carefully monitored the dose and duration to minimize withdrawal symptoms. You should continue to avoid alcohol and caffeine for another 24 hours, so I am afraid I cannot offer you wine or cappuccino. I can offer you tea, as well as a decent meal, should you care to join me in the dining room at 8:00 P.M._

_ You are no doubt angry, Clarice, as well as confused, anxious, and fearful. Have you armed yourself against me yet, Special Agent Starling? Or is it former Special Agent Starling? I suppose, with regard to your career and your larger life, you are still in limbo. An evocative word for your plight, is it not? Dante describes Limbo as the first circle of Hell, though in point of fact his description parallels that of the Elysian Fields. To refresh your memory, as I realize that the Classics garner little attention in modern education, this is the place of eternal respite for the souls of virtuous heroes of antiquity. This place is but a warrior's reprieve, not your permanent resting place. You have choices to make now._

_ The choices are entirely yours, as they have always been and remain. I believe you still have many questions, for me and for yourself, though I am certain that your curiosity remains at war with your sense of duty. I propose a truce, at least for the moment, in this place of limbo. Join me for a meal, a civilized exchange of information, and a discussion of the immediate and long-term future. Besides, I have not had the opportunity to properly express my gratitude for your actions at Muskrat Farm._

_Hannibal Lecter_

_P.S. May I make a suggestion with regard to your attire this evening? Not to be overly forward, but I took the liberty of selecting an evening dress for this occasion. You'll find it hanging in the armoire. Wear it tonight, if you wish._

"God _damn_ your wicked soul to hell, Dr. Lecter!" She breathes slowly, in through her nose and expanding her diaphragm, holding the breath for four seconds before exhaling through her nose. Her heart rate slows, a degree of anxiety dissipates, and she finds her determination. Crawford's words resonate now, uttered in a small plane lifting over the Chesapeake, on the way to view the girl in Potter.

_You think about him enough, you see where he's been, you get a feel for him. You don't even dislike him all the time, hard as that is to believe. Then, if you're lucky, out of all the stuff you know, part of it plucks at you, tries to get your attention. _

The clock reads 7:00 PM as she sets about preparing to face the monster.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2 – Shattered

Dinner preparations completed, the doctor settles himself at the head of the table and sips his tea. He would have preferred Lillet or a cocktail, but it would be impolite to indulge when she still cannot. _Perhaps later, if she stays._ Uncertainty. He examines the emotional response and sensations caused by this situation, so long out of his experience as to be almost foreign. He maintains his calm exterior, though his heart rate may or may not exceed 85 beats per minute, and waits.

He does not wait long. Two sharp knocks and the heavy mahogany door swings open. His heart stops at the sight of Clarice Starling in soft cream, her hair cascading down her shoulders. He does not linger on her cleavage, though her dress is cut generously with a plunging bodice. He is, rather, captivated by her face and eyes, especially the eyes. Tension, apprehension, and determination dance there, so like the eyes of the girl he encountered in his dungeon all those years ago. Yet, she has most definitely matured, come into her own. _No more playing with the other cubs for you, my dear. I doubt you'll keep your claws in tonight._ Her eyes are also ablaze with anger, bourgeoning rage. He shudders slightly, narrowing his eyes as he sips her exquisite fury. The monster is not immune to her beauty, either.

"Good evening, Clarice. Thank you for joining me. You look quite beautiful."

"Doctor," she nods curtly, and waits. He is dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, well groomed and stately. She takes in the sight of him as well, though familiar after weeks in his company, she sees him clearly now. He has changed much since she first viewed him in his cage, though the years have been more than kind, as has the change of venue. She finds herself troubled by the injury that lingers over his still swollen right eye, the black marks at either end of his brow faded, though the bruising has not yet lost its blue-green hue. What did they do to him before she arrived? What other marks does he bear? She stops those thoughts by musing over the location of his cape and coffin.

"Will you do me the honor of gracing my table? We'll start with a salad course, endive with country ham," he winks, "roasted pear, and aged balsamico. Sit, please, and allow me to serve you."

Her eyes do not leave his as she sits, pulling the chair away from the table herself before the doctor has the chance. She does not want him behind her. He gives a slight bow in acquiescence before removing the chilled plates of salad from the sideboard. After serving the salad and fresh bread, Dr. Lecter sits beside her and watches with wry amusement as she inspects the items before her, gingerly shifting the contents of her salad bowl with particular attention to the ham. She settles on nibbling the bread, unable to conceal her enjoyment of the hearty crust and soft center covered with herb butter.

The doctor sighs as he pours hot herbal tea into her cup, "Let me assure you that you will find nothing at all objectionable in the salad, Clarice. Would you care for sugar?"

"Yes, please," she offers, opting to keep her distant tone, though she does take a small bite of salad.

Satisfied, Dr. Lecter serves himself a slice of bread and they enjoy their salad in silence. As he clears their salad plates, he says, "Please excuse me for a moment. I'll return shortly with a pasta course, vegetarian," he smiles, revealing his small white teeth.

_Sick, twisted motherfucker, he's actually enjoying this!_ "Certainly, doctor," she offers in a polite tone, though sans smile.

She takes advantage of his absence to survey the room, her eyes adjusted to the relative dark. Through the shadows cast by recessed lighting and the admittedly cozy fire blazing in the hearth, her eyes fall upon the crossbow, mounted neatly on the wall above the sideboard. Remembering the unfortunate hunter with the arrow through his head, she feels panic rising once more, the urge to run. She isn't sure whether her resolve or the sound of his return stays her flight.

He serves what turns out to be one of the most delicious pasta dishes Clarice has ever tasted. "Herb fettuccini with chanterelle mushrooms, leeks, and roasted pearl onion. I'm glad that you find it to your liking, Clarice," he says kindly when she inquires. She has to fight not to smile, a reflex she tells herself. Such is the charm of this monster, his genteel veneer is so very disarming, so she casts furtive glances at the crossbow to remind herself to keep her guard. They finish the third course, a hearty serving of roasted duck breast with spiced apples, and it is not lost on her that he prepared an entrée that she would easily recognize as acceptable.

He interrupts her reverie as she finishes the rich crème brulee, "Thank you for sharing this meal with me, Clarice. I realize how difficult it has been for you to maintain pleasantries, and I am most grateful for your effort. I believe, however, that it is time for us to have a frank discussion about our situation."

"Our _situation_? That's rich, doctor! Which situation are you referring to, exactly? The kidnapping situation? The brainwashing situation? The crazed, murdering felon on the lam with a federal agent as a hostage situation?"

"Now Clarice, do try to calm yourself. I am trying to engage in a civilized conversation with a most charming, and if I may say so, lovely companion –"

"_Civilized_! You call drugging me then violating my mind _civilized_?" she rises from the table, almost knocking her chair to the floor.

He does not flinch, or deign to acknowledge her outburst. Rather, he offers in a light tone, "I did not violate your mind, Clarice. The drugs were merely an aid that allowed us to explore some deeply painful issues and to deal with them in a safe, non-threatening manner – "

"Placing me in a room with my dead father's bones is _safe _and _unthreatening_?" Tears of anguish at the memory mix with tears of rage, though she manages to keep her voice level.

His eyes soften in deference to her pain. He holds firm to the notion that the tableau he prepared for her, painful as it was to behold, served the larger purpose of facilitating acceptance of her greatest loss. Acceptance that would lead to healing. He is surprised to find himself pierced by her pain, though, and the unwanted image of Mischa's teeth it evokes. After a pause, he says, "I understand that my approach may seem unorthodox, but please understand that I had and continue to have your best interest at heart."

"I don't think the psychiatric board would approve of your approach, _doctor_, and you don't HAVE a heart!"

He supposes that his reputation alone probably merits the comment, though it stings nonetheless. He rises to clear the dishes, and offers in a calm tone, as one might use with a petulant child, "You are angry, Clarice, and it is your anger speaking. Perhaps we should resume this conversation in the drawing room, once you've calmed a bit."

She is too shocked to respond, and stands dumbfounded until he returns and beckons her to follow him to the drawing room.

"More tea, Clarice?"

"Sure, why the hell not?" she quips.

"Clariiiiiiice, please, my patience does in fact have a limit," he singsongs, smile no longer gracing his fine features.

"Let's just cut to the chase, OK? What in the hell have you done to me and what exactly is it that you want?"

"Oh, is that all you wish to know, my dear?"

"For starters, yes, and I'm not your _dear_."

"I believe we covered the first topic already, but allow me to elaborate," he decides to allow his irritation to show through his cool exterior, "what I have done to you is carry you away from a barn filled with man-eating swine, treated you for a potentially lethal overdose of animal tranquilizer, and yes, used pharmacologic aids to treat you for post-traumatic stress disorder, both the acute stress suffered due to the events at the fish market and Muskrat farm, and the chronic condition from which you have suffered since childhood."

She considers her response, irritated with his skillful argument and the rather uncomfortable corner in which she has been painted, "That's rather slippery of you, doctor. Allow me to offer my thanks for saving me from Mason's henchmen and swine. As for the rest, I never asked to be drugged and mind-fucked."

"Please mind your language, Clarice. I accept your gratitude. Although, it is hardly necessary considering that you risked your own life to save mine. Of course, it was your intention to cart me back off to prison following said _rescue_, so you'll understand if I felt the need to protect my freedom and continued safety while I tended to your injuries. I would like to extend you my gratitude for coming to my aid. I doubt anyone else would have been willing." He lowers his sleek head, briefly, in supplication, before assaulting her with his piercing gaze.

_He's just trying to get you off guard, don't fall for it._ "Well, now that thank-yous are out of the way, let's get to my next question. What is it that you want?"

"At the moment, I want to enjoy a cup of tea, the warm fire, and our lively conversation." He offers with a kind tone.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Then perhaps you should be a bit more specific."

"Perhaps you should go straight to hell."

"I believe that is a foregone conclusion, Clarice, but if I may be so bold as to interpret the meaning behind your rather vague query, I believe you wish to know what it is that I want with _you_. Is that correct?"

"Yes, among other things."

"Such as?"

"You didn't let me die at Verger's place, and you didn't kill and eat me when you brought me back here."

"True. That is a statement of fact, however, not a question."

"Are you just trying to fatten me up for the frying pan?"

"I prefer baked, grilled, or slow roasted if you must know, but no. I have no intention of consuming you, Clarice, though I'm certain that your corrupt colleagues at the Bureau and their benefactor believed such would be your ultimate fate at my hands. I'm reasonably certain that it was their intention for me to dispose of you, thus saving them the trouble. Of course, you played right into their predictions by chasing me, knowing the danger I represent. This is a subject that I think we should pursue now."

"That's no answer," frustration evident, "and what the hell are you getting at in that twisted, foul mind?"

Ignoring her taunt, he offers, "You've been chasing danger for quite some time Clarice. Tell me, what compels an agent of your age and with your experience to work jump outs and drug raids? Hmmmm?"

Confusion and anger mingle with tears, "I'm damned good at what I do," brow furrowed, "The only reason I've spent the past seven years being loaned out to other agencies like a whore is because I refused to be Paul Krendler's personal whore –"

"True, you are well known for your marksmanship, but let's put that, advancement issues, and Mr. Krendler's rather distasteful office politics aside, just for the moment, shall we? Why do you live by the gun, Clarice? Why did you agree to participate in the Drumgo raid? Your body count was already quite impressive," his tone was soft and pleasant, much as it had been in the dungeon all of those years ago "Did you want to get back at the addicts who busted a cap in _Daddy_?"

"Stop," low and menacing.

"Of course, Daddy failed, didn't he? But you didn't. You succeeded. Bravo, Clarice, you surpassed your father! So many proverbial _bad guys_ dead? Does that not satisfy?"

"Just _stop_."

"No, I do not believe you are satisfied. Tell me, Clarice, how old was your father when he short-shucked that old pump shotgun and exited stage right?"

"What?"

"I believe 'pardon' is a more appropriate response, but I'll grant you a little latitude," eyes blazing, "I'll ask you once more, Clarice, how _old_ was your father when he bit the big one?"

"Fuck you," she turns to leave. Quick as a cat, he's on her, spinning her and pinning her to the wall.

"How _old_, Clarice?" Pressing closer, her heart in her throat, "Make an effort at an answer now."

"Stop," she whispers, finding it difficult to breathe, with fear and white-hot rage dancing in her eyes and across her face. He presses harder, and she gasps "He was thirty-three!"

He grants no mercy or quarter, "Yes," he hisses, "thirty-three, just like you, Clarice. Tell me truly, Special Agent Starling, did you come to Mason's little soiree to save your career, to salvage what is left of your identity, or did you come to follow in your father's footsteps?"

"I saved your worthless skin," she shoves back, not possessing the sheer physical power to push him off, but he feels it nonetheless, "you'd be hog swill, _doctor_, if it weren't for me!"

"So you did," his eyes soften for a millisecond, "Clarice Starling, savior of the lambs. Was I yet another lamb, or were you?" He purrs low, nose inches from hers, "Tell me, were you determined to be my salvation, little Starling, or your own?" Mocking tone, he tosses her drawl back at her, "Or my doom? Were you determined to simultaneously thwart Mason and capture me, thus redeeming yourself in the eyes of the almighty bureau? Or were you determined to die for my sins?"

"Just stop, you twisted motherfucker!" Tears stream down her face, in spite of her valiant effort to stop them.

He smiles maniacally, revealing his small white teeth, tips gleaming, "The incorruptible Clarice Starling dies for Hannibal the Cannibal. Do you think your good, clean blood could wash away the stains on my sinful soul, wash it whiiiiiiiite as snow? Or would your sacrifice give you the recognition you crave? Clarice the warrior, the great and mighty heroine? Either way, you earn your redemption, regain your honor –"

Something in her snaps, and she musters her strength, using the wall for leverage and her wiry strength to push him off of her. He is temporarily stunned, and she uses her split second advantage to swipe his legs, bringing him to the ground before her as she pulls the .45 from beneath her gown. Prairie level eyes devoid of warmth, she holds him in her crosshairs with steady hands.

"Snow, doctor? Interesting you should make that analogy. Good clean blood and white snow …" he watches her, offering no protest as she mounts her offensive, "Good clean blood spilled on the white snow _made_ you. You didn't just _happen_, did you, though you've taken great pains to deny it? Those tableaus and scenes from early life plague you and keep you up at night, don't they, and often enough during waking hours? She was your lamb, and now you want to sacrifice me to bring her back. Isn't that really why you brought me here?"

His face is still and cold as marble, and as white, but he holds his silence.

Safety clicked off, finger on the trigger, "Do make an effort at an answer now, doctor."

"So we come back to quid pro quo, Clarice?"

"So it would seem."

"You once asked if I was afraid to point my 'high powered' perception at myself. Are you willing to bear witness?"

"Stall tactics? You could have left me to the pigs when the Sard's dart hit, but you picked me up, carried me to the car, brought me to this house and nursed me back to health. You fed me, clothed me, drugged me and ravaged my mind. I want to know _why_."

"I confess that I saw and still see something of her in you, something pure."

"That would be so much easier for you, wouldn't it? Mold a woman-child who you can control into the imago of your dead sister, forever innocent, forever naïve, never your equal, never a challenge to your monstrous ego." Her words are daggers, she pierces him with all she can, wanting him to feel some measure of the pain he has inflicted on her.

He stares back, impassive, but she knows she's touched a raw nerve. "I'm not Mischa, Dr. Lecter. I will never be Mischa. You can drug me, twist my mind and body until I'm mad as a hatter or dead, too, but it won't bring her back. She's gone, cold in the ground, reduced to bones, just like my father," gun still fixed on the monster, with her other hand she drops her teacup until it shatters before him. He regards the shards, large and small, and then meets her eyes. His are devoid of sparks, the light gone and he suddenly appears to her to be much older and she registers her tears of anger are mixed with tears of remorse, just a hint, but it is enough.

Hands shaking, she lowers her weapon and he's up, flash of silver as the harpy flies and the hand that wields it finds her throat. His eyes are pure hatred, his face madness incarnate, and she feels the sting of the blade as it pierces her flesh, drawing blood, but not enough to cause permanent damage. Yet. "No, you aren't Mischa, just as I'm not your beloved _Daddy_, Clarice. Jack Crawford didn't fill that void, either, did he? Nor did the unfortunate Mr. Brigham. Is that why you never envisioned or indulged in scenarios, exchanges, _fucking_ them?" he rasps.

She is terrified, but being mighty pissed still wins, "I'm not interested in fucking daddy, Dr. Lecter, no matter what that prick Krendler believes about my Southern cornpone roots. Sorry to disappoint you after you went to all the trouble of dressing up like him, even taking his fucking hat with the bullet hole," she chokes, sobbing in earnest now.

"Then what is it that interests you, Clarice? You could have run, grabbed your car keys and sped away from this house anytime this afternoon, this evening," he drags the knife a bit further across her throat, causing the blood to trickle down, "what is it that you want from _me_, little Starling? Shall I fulfill the Bureau's wishes and end you _now_?"

She cries out in pain as he pushes the knife in further, shaking uncontrollably now. _This is the face of death, this is the face of the monster, the last sight I'll see this side of life. _She closes her eyes and an eternity passes. It is only when she hears his voice that she knows she is still alive.

"It would appear that you do not have a death wish after all, Agent Starling."

When she opens her eyes, he is gone.

* * *

Menu from Atomic Gourmet dot com (winter menus)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3 – Aftermath

She wakes with a horrid sense of dread lodged in her gut and in her chest, the worst kind of anxiety that snatches the peace of slumber with a jolt. Once out of the fog, the events of the previous evening come crashing back, careening through her pounding skull. What has she done? What to do now? She is still alive. He is still alive. _Dear God, did I actually pull the gun?_ Visions of Evelda and her posse flood Starling's troubled mind, Mogli's image, too, the pigs, the barn, Lecter on the ground before her as she cocked the .45, _DEATH ANGEL: CLARICE STARLING, THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE,_ and she runs to the adjacent bathroom to throw up.

Lying on the bathroom floor, head propped by one of the luxurious towels, she holds a cold compress to her head and calms enough to think. Her thoughts meander down an unexpected road. Clarice had experience with only a few cases involving domestic disputes, and the memories come to her unbidden now, disturbing, though less so than the previous flashbacks. She remembers marveling at how human beings sharing such intimacy could become so violent toward one another. She is no longer so incredulous. Only those who know us, about whom we care, consciously or not, can evoke such powerful emotions. _Who ever really recognized me?_ It occurs to her then that he was as angry as she was, perhaps more so. She had only ever seen him agitated once before, standing outside of his cell after covered with the stench of Miggs. _He was actually angry. Really, REALLY angry. I hit a nerve and it smarted? Do I matter to him, more than just a surrogate for his sister or a plaything? Why does that matter to me? Why do I care so much about hurting him?_ And what about her anger? Never, ever, had she pulled a gun on anyone in the heat of passion or for spite, even at her most disillusioned or jaded moments in the field. She runs her fingers over the wound on her neck, closes her eyes, breathing, breathing, scent of mint, scent of almonds from the skin cream, and ceases fighting her thoughts and feelings. A first.

What to do? Apologize? _No way, the bastard got what he deserved, and he can take it like a man!_ But the gun? _Well doctor, do you have any lingering doubts as to how I manage my rage?_ She laughs darkly to herself, but she is shaky. She stands at the cliff's edge and contemplates the dark water below. What does it mean, that she could kill for him? _No, I killed to preserve justice! That's the only reason I EVER killed!_ But she did kill, in part, to save him, so isn't that just splitting hairs? What exists in her very nature, that she could have pulled the trigger to end him? What exists in that same nature that stilled her hand? First principles? _He killed for you._ He's crazy! _Is he?_ She isn't so sure, nor is she certain of her own sanity at this point. _ OK, he saved you, too_. _But ... he tried to kill you last night. _ He attacked her only after she pulled the gun, though. He stilled his own hand and wicked blade. _ He could still try to kill you!_ Ah, there's the rub. She has never felt so drained, so lost, so confused. His words pierced her, always pierce her, so she lashed back the only way she could, and she wounded him, too. Now that she had the time to process his words, and acknowledge her own darkness, the dismal path of her life, the terror of the unknown, what is left of her, the ache within her wells and she weeps. Gasping sobs of grief, loneliness, and sorrows long buried and new now find release.

When her sobs subside, she stumbles to the window, staring out over the Chesapeake in winter, unmoved by the view of falling snow. _Cold. Cold as Daddy in the ground, cold as the bloody snow in his nightmares, cold as the honest iron. _ _Honest iron. Words of comfort from the monster. _Starling had never called him monster, even in her head, but seeing his darkness chilled her to the bone. _Is he a monster, is he more? What about me?_ She allows the remaining tears welling in her eyes to fall before willing the others that threaten away, closing her eyes, and deciding. She can't leave, she has nowhere to go, and no one to whom she can turn, save one. _God help us both._ No doubt he was off somewhere licking his own wounds, planning his next move. She needs answers, but how to get them? Glad and sorry, sorry and glad. She understands how she should approach him. It would be safer, still risky, but safer. A cardinal rule when hunting, approach the wounded with caution, even if the wounded has perfected the art of hiding his pain. The approach she will take is only fitting, in the spirit of giving him a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

He had heard her stir, naturally. He also heard her outpouring of emotion. His acute senses are both blessing and curse; though he credits her ability to surprise him in spite them, as she proved last evening. His own rest was more fitful than he would ever be willing to admit to anyone, especially to her. But, he did not dream. Though it is normally his custom to rise early, before dawn, and savor the first rays of daylight, he finds that he is actually hesitant to leave his own room. So he does not. Whether from fear of her wrath and her gun, or his own unchecked rage and his knife, or another profoundly more terrifying reason, he prefers not to address at the moment.

After a time, he thinks perhaps he should begin breakfast preparations. At least brew fresh coffee. He would be pleased to offer her the fine Italian roast, as she has been deprived of her caffeine ration for several weeks. _One for the road._ He pushes that thought aside, though he knows the snow will not accumulate to the point of prohibiting travel for several more hours. _She can leave. She will leave._ He will let her go. He made that decision weeks ago, when he started this experiment. Once he set the events in motion, the choice was hers, and he learned the hard way that he built far, far better than he knew. The ache he feels at the thought of her departure is even more troubling, not a part of the game at all.

The whisper of paper against hardwood draws his attention away from these unpleasant thoughts. He moves to the door, taking the envelope and considering. The paper he recognizes, heavy in his hands. Under ordinary circumstances, the doctor would have been irritated at the intrusion into his private study, but she has always been granted certain . . . _entitlements_ where he is concerned. _Is she even aware?_ He moves to the built-in banquette, seating himself to face the bay window from which he can view the waters of the Chesapeake. The morning sun, wan though visible in spite of the snowfall, provides soft light by which to read her words. A declaration of war? A peace-treaty? Platform for continued negotiations? Goodbye? _Tell me, doctor, from whence comes this tremor in your soul at the thought?_ He breathes. Inhalation, her scent from the paper, exhalation, and calm ensues. He pushes the thought aside and opens the envelope, revealing a somewhat meandering script through which she now shares her thoughts.

_Dear Hannibal,_

_ After our discussion, for lack of a better word, last night, I believe we can drop the formalities. My age and station have advanced, after all. I do not have your eloquence, and can't hope to write anything like the letter you sent to me after the Drumgo raid. All I can offer is honesty. So here goes. _

_I have pursued you in an official capacity for a long time. In the interest of full disclosure, I can honestly tell you that I have been in search of you since Memphis. I am not sure that I understand all of my reasons, but the obvious naturally included your apprehension. Never your death, never harm, never torture. I sought justice, but the Bureau was content to stand by and allow Mason Verger and Paul Krendler to torture and kill you. I couldn't let that happen. I know they used me as bait, to draw you here. What I don't fully understand is why it worked. _

_Quid pro quo, doctor? Fine. You challenged me with some ugly truths, some near truths, and some speculations that I do not yet know how to classify. That's one reason I'm still here. I looked into the honest iron when you asked me, and though I'm scared as hell, I really need another look. I want your insight. I want to understand myself, and I want to understand you. Not to quantify you, but to understand. That's the other reason I'm still here. I've seen your charm, and I've seen your scales, and you've seen mine, but I'm still here. Why are you still here?_

_Quid pro quo, doctor. Yes or no?_

_Clarice_

_P.S. Please look outside of your door._

He moves then, heart rate elevated and nerves on edge. _Is this how it feels to hope, or to dread?_ He opens the door and his mind reels at the strange sight that greets him. He picks up the saucer holding the cup with great care, knowing that the glue holding it together could not have fully set. It seeps through the cracks, scarring the porcelain surface and marring the delicate patterns, but the cup is intact, save for the chips too small to replace and one missing shard. He finds the missing piece inside the cup. The final piece remains to be placed, his decision. Possibilities careen through his cavernous mind; relief, exhilaration, and a rush of anxiety that he fully acknowledges suffusing his being. What to do? What is she worth to him? What is he worth to her, for that matter? _Hmmm ... a worthy plan, for an engaging and worthy adversary then?_ It's risky, and he cannot trust her intentions fully. He laughs to himself. _Nor can she fully trust mine. Let the games begin in earnest. _He checks his watch, jots a quick note, calculates time and distance relative to weather, and plans his next move.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4 – A Taste of His Own

She ventures into the kitchen when she hears to unmistakable sound of a nearby car engine, a curious mixture of panic and disappointment filling her troubled mind. She had expected him to seek her out after she delivered the note and cup, waiting for over half an hour in his study, nerves on edge. Her gun is still within reach, of course, but she still struggles with the urge to give him the benefit of the doubt, crazy as the notion may be. She knows she can go through with her plan, or wing it based on his reaction. What she had not been prepared for was his retreat. _He's leaving. He's had enough and he's leaving me! Wait, leaving me? Where did that come from?_

Clarice deliberately ignores these thoughts and focuses instead on the rich aromas wafting to her nostrils as she opens the kitchen door. He has left a neat tray upon which he placed more fresh bread, butter, and fresh fruit, along with a carafe from which the wonderful smell emanates. _Coffee._ She sighs with relief as she sees the note, and settles herself in a chair at the small bistro table, loathe as she is to set foot back in into the formal dining room or drawing room.

She surprises herself by savoring her coffee and breakfast while leaving the note unopened beside her plate. Normally, she is short on patience and long on indigestion. She wonders if he left her on her own deliberately, to set her mind at ease and to give her time to think. Or, perhaps it is a test, to see if she'll call the authorities. _Or is he scheming and trying to cover his own sorry ass? What is _in_ this coffee?_ She is half certain that it tastes so wonderful simply because she hasn't had a cup in so long, but she has to admit that it's really, really good. _The man does have great taste. I'll give him that._ The bread satisfies her hunger, the sweetness of the fruit providing a light note. Only when she has a second cup in hand does she turn her attention to his note.

_Dear Clarice,_

_Please excuse my absence. I have a few errands in need of my attention before the weather prohibits travel. In the interest of 'full disclosure,' I must warn you that the access road and adjacent secondary routes will become impassable within the next three hours. Should you have second thoughts and wish to leave this place, I must insist that you do so within this time frame to ensure safe travel. _

_Perhaps I should be clear, however, and express my desire that you remain as my guest, at the very least until the storms pass. You are safe here, Clarice, and the choice to remain or to leave at any time is entirely yours. Know that I truly mean you no harm. While we are on the subject, I apologize for my lapse last evening. You must learn to avoid putting me in passion, or I shall really murder you sometime. Or perhaps you shall murder me. We are quite a pair, are we not? That was a joke, by the way. Don't spend an inordinate amount of time analyzing it. _

She almost snorts her coffee as she reads the last lines. Whether out of amusement, incredulity, or fear, even she does not know. _Quoting the diabolical Mr. Heathcliff, doctor? How appropriate. Well, I'm much more lethal than Ms. Earnshaw._ She experiences a memory flash, discussing her favorite books from childhood as he eased her into their long 'talks'. Flash of anger, twinge of regret, but she presses on.

_You are very frank, as ever, and in spite of our rather heated discussion last evening, it is quite something to know more of you in private life. Perhaps we'll do better with our next conversation. Would you care to join me for a casual lunch upon my return? If you decide to remain, please enjoy breakfast and coffee at your leisure, and do not feel compelled to forgo the pleasure of a nice warm bath. Relaxation suits you, Clarice, and it is essential for your health and well-being. I'll be back soon._

_Hannibal_

_P.S. In answer to your final question, yes; go, Clarice._

"Shithouse mouse!" she shouts, then collapses into nervous giggles, "He took the fucking bait!" She finds herself exhilarated and anxious, much as she felt all those years ago in Baltimore in the musty old storage building. _The first time he shared information with me._ Truth be told, she should be very afraid, but the fear she feels at the prospect of the impending information exchange is very different than the fear that Jack Crawford would have imparted to her. Thinking back to last night, she wonders vaguely if they should stick to notes and letters as a preferred method of communication to preserve life and limb, and giggles at that as well. Not that it matters, should all go according to the plan. _I must be as twisted as he is. Fuck!_ She decides to take his advice, and allows warm water and soothing lavender calm her. She soaks and gathers her wits for the next round of mental chess.

After she soaks and dresses, a quick scan of the house reveals his continued absence. She is surprised to find that she is a little worried, as she notes at least one and a half inches of snow outside. She pushes the thought aside and returns to the kitchen to prepare lunch. At least, she plans to try and pull something together. Ardelia handled most of the cooking for her, unless she did take out, and for very good reason. Starling is an efficient housekeeper and a lousy cook. She opens the pantry and grabs some crackers, knowing he must be well stocked with cheeses, and pulls a china tray from the cabinet. She smiles at the pattern, a perfect match to the teacup that she had meticulously glued for most of the morning. Clarice had to dig a bit to find the tube of superglue in one of the utility drawers, but would have been willing to use the chewing gum still buried in the depths of her handbag if necessary. The letter was incidental, but the cup was essential.

With a moment's trepidation, she opens the refrigerator and decides to avoid all unlabeled containers. A shudder, second thoughts, images from Hannibal's House flooding her mind. _I must be nuckin' futs! I should be in my car and out of here before he drives a knife through my chest. No, focus! Stay busy! I still have the gun, the cuffs, and the rest._ She places the thoughts aside and continues to rummage through the refrigerator. She finds several packages of cheese in neat wedges, their waxy skins bearing foreign labels that she surmises to be mostly French, and arranges them strategically on the tray, surrounded by crackers.

She almost decides to scrap the whole thing, remembering the "party food" of her impoverished youth, cheap saltines smeared with unnaturally bright orange pimento cheese and the ever popular mystery meat staple, Spam. _Taste isn't kind._ If he makes fun of her, she swears to God almighty she will force-feed him Velveeta before shooting him in the skull. _No, I think we need to lay our arms down now. _But she is still scared, and with good reason, so the gun will remain with her for the time being_. _ Whether she is more scared of the cuts his knife could inflict, or his barbed tongue, she chooses not to analyze. She finds fresh cherries in the fridge and washes them before placing them around a bunch of grapes in the center of the tray and finishing her presentation with slices of duck breast that she recognized from the previous meal. She wraps the tray lightly with foil and places it back in the fridge, and then busies herself by rummaging through his wine rack. No idea what is appropriate for pairing with lunch or for the time of day in general, she settles on preparing iced tea with fresh lemons. Works with her heritage, at least.

Two hours since she found the note, and still no sign of him. She meanders through the house. She won't snoop through his bedroom. _Too personal. Besides, I won't stoop to his level. Not just yet. _She tells herself that, though the thought of entering his private domain gives her shivers she would rather not acknowledge. She settles, instead, on exploring the drawing room, needing to rid herself of the power that the memories of their argument still hold. She doesn't want to fight with herself anymore. She needs to have something left when she gets to the doctor. Surprisingly, no dreadful images invaded her consciousness upon entering the room. In fact, it is rather warm and inviting in the daylight, low fire lit as if in anticipation of her presence.

Her eyes fall to the artwork lining the walls, pausing at the fine reproduction of Salvador Dali's _Leda Atomica_. She hadn't given it much thought before, as the entire house was riddled with paintings and sculpture celebrating the mythic liaison between god and mortal, but something in this one resonates. The stillness of the objects suspended around the woman, everything connects, yet nothing touches. That seems odd, for such evocative and sensual subject matter. Still, the analogy strikes a nerve. A god in disguise, preternaturally powerful and mysterious, takes a mortal woman. By force, by seduction, or by persuasion? That was a matter of debate among countless scholars and artists. The immortal Gala-as-Leda seems agreeable, a knowing in her eyes as she gazes at her captor/consort. _What is she thinking? Are her choices her own?_ Leda is reaching out with her right hand, for what Starling couldn't guess.

"Good afternoon, Clarice," the voice behind her offers softly. She almost jumps out of her skin before she whirls around to find him standing in the doorway, very still, open palms, 'please forgive me. It was not my intention to frighten you. Are you fond of Dali in general, or this work in particular?" He winks at the last.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Lecter," her voice sounded OK to her.

He smiles, and it seems to her to be genuine. "Please, Clarice, you were correct in your assessment of age and station. Besides, we've been … acquainted for a long time. You may address me by my given name, should you wish."

Is this a challenge, or small talk? Does he want to break the ice, or to poke the snake with a stick and see if it strikes? She considers her approach and decides. They seem to share the same morbid humor, after all, and perhaps a small challenge of her own is in order, "Dali's O.K. A little bizarre, but that's the point of surrealism, right? Consider _The Persistence of Memory_, for example. Melting clocks, the arrow of time and flexible entropy, or perhaps the passage of time in the dream state? What's _your_ opinion?"

With both hands where she can still see them, he gestures toward the door with his right, "Touché, Clarice. Would you like to join me for lunch now?" In deference to her tension, he offers, "We'll keep the conversation light during the meal. More serious subjects can certainly wait until we're both more comfortable."

She visibly relaxes, and offers a small smile, "Yes, I would like that ... " swallow, deep breath, "Hannibal."

He closes his eyes for a long moment, "Thank you, Clarice." He then steps ahead, "I would offer to hold the door for you, but I believe you may find it disconcerting to have me at your back."

_He's fishing, stay calm,_ "If it puts you at ease, I'm willing to permit a gentleman's gesture."

He nods, bows, and holds the door as she steps over the threshold. She keeps her gait even and breathing steady as she goes. He does not touch her, and she isn't certain whether she is relieved, disturbed, or disappointed. She enters the hallway, the walk toward the kitchen an eternity on leaden feet. They repeat their curious tango as he holds the kitchen door, and she is surprised to find her lunch tray on the small bistro table, two glasses of iced tea with lemon waiting by two place settings. He seems pleased by her reaction, and she again fights the twinges of guilt and regret, though she has to admit to herself that she is pleased to please him.

Lunch proves to be much more pleasant that the previous evening's dinner, the conversation mutually agreeable and intervening silence companionable. He compliments her on her choices and presentation, and she confesses her angst over preparations, earning her the privilege of a rare display of mirth from the doctor. She had never heard him laugh without mocking, and it both pleases and pierces her. So as not to arouse his suspicion, she thanks him for the morning coffee and offers to clear the table.

"I believe the time has come to engage in our scheduled quid pro quo exchange," his eyes glint with wicked pleasure. "Please allow me to clear the remainder of our lunch, and, if you don't mind, may I suggest we adjourn to the drawing room for our discussion?"

"That's fine, doctor. I'll wait for you in the drawing room, then?"

"If it suits you, Clarice. Would you care for some more herbal tea? I'm afraid you have exceeded your caffeine limit for the day."

"Tea would be great." She exits the kitchen; heart racing as she moves through the hallway, hands in her pockets. She enters the drawing room and waits.

A turn of the doorknob, he opens the door with one hand, carrying the tea tray with the other, hands full, just as she had hoped. _Glad and sorry, sorry and glad._ _Now or never._ She registers shock in his eyes after she plunges the needle into his bicep, injecting the tranquilizer and catching him to break his fall. His grip on her arm is painful, and he whispers something she has to strain to hear, but he does not resist," Well played, Clarice."

"I'm sorry, Hannibal. It's the only way." He falls from consciousness then, and she is grateful. She no longer need hide her tears.

* * *

A/N – Hannibal's little joke in the letter comes from Heathcliff in Bronte's _Wuthering Heights_. I've used this lit ref before, I know, but the quote was too delicious to resist.

The plot twist and cliffhanger were inspired by a fabulous plot bunny rap session with Jewel. Mwu-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Salvador Dali – MajorBachman and I have been engaged in an ongoing cyber-discussion about art, which started with an introduction to Dada (new for me) and led me to surrealism, thus Dali. Check out these titles/works that resonated with us in relation to the Lecter novels:

_Cannibalism in Autumn_

_Nostalgia of the Cannibal_

_Ballerina in a Death's Head_

_The Wounded Bird_

_The Invention of the Monsters_

_Design for the Interior Decoration of a Stable-Library_

_Christ of St. John of the Cross _(Lecter's Crucifixion Watch from 'SOTL')

_The Persistence of Memory_ (Teacups and time?)

_The Ghost of Vermeer_ (Every Vermeer in the world, Barney?)

_Honey is Sweeter than Blood_

_Portrait of Gala With Two Lamb Chops Balanced on Her Shoulder_

And … REALLY freaky, _Shirley Temple, The Youngest, Most Sacred Monster of the Cinema in Her Time_ (Head of Shirley Temple on a Lion's body – kind of like the artwork in the note Lecter sends Clarice with the goodies from Italy in 'Hannibal')

Either Mr. Harris took a bit of inspiration from Dali, or I've been reading Harris for waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long. The latter is probably true (OK, it's _definitely_ true), but the connections seem too numerous to be just a coincidence. Also, Wiki Gala Dali - see if you get a flash from the Hannibal Novel when you see Dali's portrait of her. Good fodder for discussion, as well as my ongoing art education. Thanks MB!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5 – The Games Begin

Starling works in spite of her tears, already subsiding in the wake of a useful task. She moves the doctor to a nearby chair, cuffing each wrist to the armrest. She does not have extra cuffs for his legs, so she works quickly lest he rouse early and kick. Settling her weight on his lap as she straddles him, she first tilts his head to examine his injured eye. She does not linger, as nothing he has done indicates loss of sight or discomfort. She tries not to think about whether his arms and wrists are still sore from being bound to the singletree. Starling also notes the injury to his scalp.

Detached, as she would be during a pat down on a suspect, she unbuttons his shirt, her eyes narrowing at the angry burn mark on his chest. His torso bears several older scars, but fading bruises indicate more recent physical assault. He was very likely beaten by his captors, perhaps suffering fractured ribs. _I should have pursued, I should have pursued._ The words echo in her mind. _What else did they do to you before I got there?_ Tears of anger, tears of regret, and tears of aggravation caused by her tears are falling.

Clarice Starling rarely cries, yet the past six months have yielded more tears than the past 13 years. The past several weeks have seen the most. A memory flashes. Strong arms around her, the great volume of a beating heart and comfort. She had seen her father, had felt his love, his acceptance, reassurance that she had been true to herself and her values. Lecter was the conduit for this experience, the drugs the catalyst. She knows this now. What she struggles to reconcile is the liberation that this catharsis has given her, that she feels in spite of her current distress, with the madness of the man whose mind constructed the experience. The same man who then subjected her to her father's disinterred remains. The man whose cruelty knows no bounds, yet through whose mercy she remains alive. _But to what end?_ Whose doom it is to re-enact his bloody nightmare to again and again to purge its power, though he of all people must realize that it will never, ever end, no matter how many lives he takes. _Seeing the plight, and the plight will not end, ever._ She studies the contours of his face, the monster in repose, and marvels at the situation. She should be terrified. Well, truth be told … But, honestly, what possessed her to stay with this man? She could have left, should have left, but instead, she drugged him and tied him up so she could … talk to him?

Shaking off her emotions, she buttons his shirt back and removes herself, hoping she has not aggravated any unseen leg injuries. Starling fills the syringe and injects a second drug, secreted from his study, through a prominent vein in his left hand, shaking off her distaste. The academy and early work as an EMT had provided her some basic medial training, and she hits the vein on her first try. With a gentle caress of his hand, and an almost caress of his face, she seats herself in a chair facing the doctor and waits.

He stirs after a time, lifting his head, but he does not open his eyes. Instead he tilts his head, and then breathes deeply. He is very still, apparently focused on the scents and sounds around him. "Dr. Lecter," she speaks gently, "can you hear me?"

"Yes, Clarice, I can hear you," his tone is flat, and he still does not open his eyes.

"Are you comfortable?"

"I cannot lift my hands," he offers in the same, flat tone.

"I know, and I am very sorry for that. I restrained you so we could talk for a while. If the cuffs are too tight, please tell me and I'll loosen them a bit. I want to ask you some questions, and I want us both to feel safe while we talk. You remember last evening?"

"Yes, I remember."

"You pinned me to the wall, and we both became angry. I pulled my gun on you, and then you attacked me with your knife."

"Yes, that was most unfortunate, Clarice, and not at all a part of my plan."

"What were you planning?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"You've been talking to me a lot over the last several weeks."

"I wanted you in a fully conscious state again. I very much enjoyed our conversations in Baltimore and Memphis, aside from the inconvenience of my incarceration. I wanted to chat again under those conditions, on equitable terms, at least one more time."

"One more time before what? Before you drugged me again? Before you killed me?"

"My plans after Muskrat farm were never certain, Clarice. The circumstances, through which you came here with me, were borne out of spontaneity. I had a rare opportunity to … explore you further."

Flash of anger, evident now in her tone, "Explore me? What sort of explorations did you conduct while I was unconscious? I sure as hell didn't smell like barn when I woke up!"

"I brought you back to this house, treated you for your injuries, and bathed you. I did not violate your body, I assure you. All that I did for you in a medical capacity, I did with professional detachment to preserve your dignity."

"Why did you violate my mind?"

"I am sorry you see it that way. My intention was to help you find a way to heal."

"Do you expect me to believe that your motives were purely altruistic? You could have dropped me off at a hospital."

"You were shot twice, Clarice, with powerful tranquilizer darts. Time was of the essence. Had I failed to act quickly, you might have died."

"Why is it important to you that I live, Doctor Lecter?"

Silence follows, and his head droops. She triple checked the dose, perusing his PDR to make sure she didn't overdo it. She was actually more worried that she would under dose him. "Doctor Lecter, can you hear me?" More silence, "Doctor, please, are you alright?"

She moves closer, but not close enough for him to kick or bite. She moves behind him and gently touches his arm, "Doctor Lecter?"

"Clarice, did you have access to my medical records from the Asylum, along with your FBI case file?"

"No, the records were incomplete. What should I know about? Are you allergic or prone to any adverse reactions to specific meds?" True concern, burgeoning panic in her voice, she continues, "Are you OK? Do you feel any pain or distress?"

A chuckle from the doctor, and now she really worries. "The only mild distress I feel, aside from a slight hangover from the chlorpromazine and the unpleasant taste of rotting onions that lingers in my palate, I'm perfectly fine. May I ask, have you experienced any withdrawal symptoms or lingering side effects today?" His concern is genuine, his affect no longer flat. So is her returning anger.

"Such as, _doctor_?"

He sighs. "Symptoms such as difficult sleep or excessive drowsiness, nausea, muscle weakness, loss of reflexes," a pause, "continuing irritability? Before you become agitated, please understand that it is not my intention for this line of questioning to become adversarial. I merely wish to know if you are experiencing any lingering discomfort related to your medication, as your physician." He opens his eyes and offers a small smile.

She steels herself, waiting for her emotions to settle a bit before speaking, "Before I answer, I'll remind you that _you_ were the so-called physician who administered said medication, without my knowledge or informed consent. As for 'lingering discomfort,' I honestly can't tell if my raw nerves, sick stomach, and insomnia are coming from the drugs or this ... bizarre and frightening situation in general. Why in the hell else do you think I stuck that needle in your arm and cuffed you to the chair? It didn't work, though, did it? You were just fucking with me before." _Asshole! I fell for it hook, line, and sinker, and he knows it!_

He simply stares, waiting. "I'm scared as hell, Hannibal."

His expression is unreadable, as he appears to consider her words, her demeanor. More than a minute passes before he speaks, "I know the feeling."

Not at all what she expected, she says before she catches herself, "Pardon?"

He smiles, "You're still a quick study. I always liked that about you. I have personally experienced the effects of the drugs that I administered to you, including the sodium pentathol you administered to me, with the exception of naloxene. I have also experienced the unpleasant effects of traumatic circumstance. I find myself experiencing the effects of the latter now, just as you are."

Though she really doesn't want to get off topic, lest it diminish her resolve, she still has to ask, "You've been given these drugs before?"

"Of course, Clarice. Dr. Chilton tried all manner of pharmacologic aids to break me. Fortunately, I had already conducted extensive personal research with even more exotic combinations than his assisting physicians concocted. By way of mental conditioning and acquired tolerance, I was able to resist. The only difficulty I seem to have is ignoring the unpleasant aftertastes associated with your poison of choice. Perhaps you gave me a bit too much."

Beats of silence before he continues, "I do not tell you this to sway your opinion about the manner in which I applied these methods to your situation. I simply wish for you to understand that I have done nothing to you that I would not and have not done to myself. Now, if you continue to experience these unpleasant effects, whatever their cause, I would like to offer my assistance in alleviating them. With your permission, of course."

"Why bother asking for permission now?" she quips, "And why on earth would you take that stuff yourself?" Her mind catching up with her mouth, she continues, "And how could Chilton get away with drugging you in secret? What else did that fucker do to you, Hannibal?"

He forbids himself to savor her apparent outrage in response to his abuse just yet, though his eyes soften a bit, "Concerned for my welfare, Clarice? I'm flattered and grateful. I doubt anyone else alive shares your sentiment. The answer to the first question is ... difficult. Forgive me, but I must ask for your patience, as the answer will require a bit more ... introspection on my part. At any rate, I do not wish for you to feel any measure of discomfort and I," he pauses, and she cannot hide her surprise at his hesitancy, " ... I shall do all in my power to properly attend to your physical needs and general comfort, Clarice. As for the second, question, a mixture of curiosity and pressing need compelled me to test these drugs. Finally, dear Freddy had some rather interesting interpretations of medical ethics and human experimentation."

"You used the drugs to study yourself? What pressing need?" she doesn't like the wave of emotion overtaking her at this realization, or at his earlier almost admission of ... something terribly important and immensely frightening and she cannot allow herself to be derailed now no matter the small shard of hope pricks at her heart. She cannot trust. Not yet, maybe not ever, but certainly not yet. _Focus! Don't let him get to you! Focus!_

"I believe it is now your turn to tell me something, or have you forgotten the rules?" A malevolent grin insinuates itself across his face.

"You unbelievable bastard!"

"Quid pro quo, yes or no Clarice?"

Yes, another cliffy and I leave you guys hangin'! This is as far as I could get before vacation, so bear with me. I'll try to post the next round in a few weeks when I get back. I promise more fireworks and angst. I love writing them when they're pissed, and they have some more ground to cover before they can change direction! Which direction? I'll get back to you on that one, too

Apologies for any errors – didn't have as much time to proof it … but at least I got it posted today!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6 – Quid Pro Quo

She stares at him, stunned. Shock quickly turns to frustrated indignation, and the urge to pull out her gun returns with a vengeance. This is exactly what she had hoped to avoid. _Leave it to him to fuck that right the hell up, too! And _now_ he wants to play more games?_

"I'm waiting, Clarice. Though, in your defense, I do appear to be a captive audience. What do you say? One last round for old time's sake, or are we pressed for time while your reinforcements arrive?"

"Reinforcements? You think I called the Bureau?"

"Why else would you resort to handcuffing me and performing a preliminary interrogation of dubious legality? You didn't even Mirandize me. Tsk tsk. Perhaps your lack of advancement has more to do with your failed adherence to protocol than anything else?" His tone is ever pleasant, his demeanor calm.

Her thinly veiled fury grows by the second, "Nice try, doctor, but you won't rattle my cage that easy and make me slip up. I like you right where you are at the moment. You burned your ass, now you still have to sit on it."

"A lovely colloquialism, Clarice. Perhaps you could stitch it on a pillow for me? I'm sure I'll need all the help I can get in decorating my new prison cell." He smiles, knowing he's hit a nerve. _Just like old times indeed. I do believe I can still rattle your cage, and shake a few more demons loose._

"Or maybe you just want me to put you out of your misery before you have to go back to prison?"

"You're just stalling now, Clarice."

"Fine. Quid pro quo. Only this time, I trade for information about _you_ doctor."

"Agreed, though I believe I have shared quite a bit already. Now then, how much time do we have before your friends arrive?"

"All the time in the world, doctor. I didn't call the Bureau. I didn't call anyone. It's just you and me now."

He searches her face, and she knows he's looking for the lie. He does not find it. After a moment, his eyes narrow and he appears to steel himself before speaking, "You didn't call anyone," he states, rather than queries, "no one."

"No one, doctor."

"Why is that, do you think?"

"What do you mean? I told you, it's just the two of us. We have unfinished business, you and me."

He smiles his feral smile, revealing his small white teeth, "Oh I think there's more to it than that, Clarice."

"What in the hell are you getting at now?"

"You told me many things during the course of our sessions. I daresay I know you better than anyone else on earth, perhaps better than you know yourself and your own motivations."

"Watch it, doctor, or maybe I will call my buddies at the F – B – I."

"I don't think you have any 'buddies' left in the Bureau, or anywhere else, for that matter."

"Just because some of the higher-ups like to dick me around doesn't mean that I don't have any allies." She feels the knot tighten in her chest, but she keeps her voice even.

"Allies? Really Clarice? Perhaps you would care to peruse the local papers from the past several weeks? You'll find them in my study. Or would you care to check the local and national news? The coverage surrounding Mason's demise and the mess at Muskrat is still making headlines. You, however, are not. Hardly a mention at all." He pauses, to let his words sink in. "I monitor police scanners and still have one operational access code to the FBI's classified files. You're listed as a missing person, but not as a kidnap victim. No APBs, no searches, no alerts. Strange, none of your allies seem to be looking for you."

Tears of realization fall, though what remains of her pride prevents her from lowering her eyes.

"Poor little girl lost," he croons, "whatever will she do now? No Mommy, no DADDY, no career, no prospects, no _man_."

"Sticks and stones, doctor, you've beaten that horse to a bloody pulp," she almost keeps her voice from cracking.

"Oh, I think we still have a bit of ground to cover. The bloom was fresh at 26, wasn't it? Of course, you were wise beyond your years in many ways, but still the ingénue for Jack Crawford, for Dr. Pilcher, even for the odious Mr. Krendler. The future was bright then, the possibilities limited only by your dedication and determination. When did you first realize that you were destined for mediocrity, doomed to the status of White Dwarf instead of the Supernova you longed to be? Hard work isn't enough, and your pride coupled with an overdeveloped sense of justice _really_ kept you from advancing, didn't it?"

"I was and have always been true to my conscience," she maintains, defenses rising, "I never 'toadied or fawned for the courthouse crowd,' just like you said."

"And at the ripening age of 33, what do you have to show for your ridiculous principles, hmm? Nearly as much as Daddy? Let me tell you something specific about your plight. You wonder often enough if you really are your own worst enemy, Clarice, most especially when it comes to the Bureau, don't you? It niggles at you, believing that you needn't have slept with Mr. Krendler, that a little simpering, some innocuous flirtation, a tiny morsel of deference that his position was due would have smoothed it all over. But you refused to bend, refused to hold your acid tongue, to play the game. You were offered an out after the Fishmarket, were you not?"

"They wanted me to cop a plea to some bogus charges, to sell out my dead comrades, to LIE!"

"Trade offs, tit for tat, quid pro quo, that's how real life works, Clarice. Didn't Daddy ever teach you that? Didn't Jack?"

"I –" she falters.

"Being a martyr isn't all that glamorous, is it? And personal sacrifices are seldom recognized and even more rarely appreciated. Where is Catherine Martin? Former Senator Martin? They didn't come to your aid while the powers that be crucified you. You gave up husband and children for the Bureau, for justice, but what has it gotten you? Get off the cross, Clarice, really. Someone else needs the wood."

Her lips quiver as more tears fall. She is close to breaking under the punishing truths slung at her from the lips of the beast. No mercy emanates from his eyes, no warmth visible in the soul behind them. She is in the dungeon again, crushed by the weight of his words that give voice to her darkest thoughts and deepest abyss of fear and pain.

"Now tell me, my dear, what is it that you regret the most about your choices, your career path, your _failures_, your life?"

She rises slowly, keeping his eyes and preserving what dignity she has left. She the turns her back on him as she reaches the door, turns the handle, and opens it. Pausing before she moves through, she turns to face him once more, and says, "I most regret that I didn't pursue that van when those animals snatched you. I should have pursued. I should have pursued," the last is barely a whisper as she walks out the door.

It takes him much longer than he wishes to free himself from the chair, and in his haste to find her he leaves the handcuffs dangling from his wrists. She isn't in her room, his study, or the kitchen. _Where is she?_ His irritation almost masks his panic. She alone has the power to surprise, enrage, enliven, and engage him as no other has in countless years. His heaven and hell, equipped with cunning and claws. _Where is she?_ She could have been civil, could have joined him for a civilized conversation in the study, but she incapacitated, bound, and drugged him instead. _And what of your actions, doctor?_ Irrelevant. _Are they? What irritates you the most, her actions or her ingenuity and fortitude? That you cannot ever truly predict or control her? That she gave you back a bit of your own?_ He shakes his head, as if flinging away these thoughts invading his consciousness as he might raindrops from his hair. _Where is she?_

It needn't have come to this, he muses. He had considered many possibilities, and her concern for him in spite of her fear and his cutting words fill him with a hope for which he knows he has no right. Analyzing his emotions, he is disturbed by her effect on him, in spite of the thrill of this game. _What do you regret most, doctor? And what do you most desire?_ The stakes ever higher, the risks greater, and yet they still play. Never has any other game exhilarated, exhausted, and exasperated him more. It cannot end yet. He continues his search through the house.

As he passes the foyer, he notes that his camel hair coat is missing from the rack. A quick inspection of the front steps reveals small footprints in the snow. They lead, not the garage, but away from the house, toward the direction of the beach. The afternoon sun is waning, and fresh snow still falls. _Too cold for a beach stroll, Clarice_. He considers the implications. She cannot get far on foot. She isn't going far. _Why does she stay?_ Against his better judgment and in spite of his still wounded pride, he dons his heavy wool, gloves, and hat. Carrying with him two small boxes, one silver and one gold, identical in size and construction, each decorated by a single white bow, he sets off after her through the falling snow, haunted by the ghosts of long ago.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7 – Choices

She sits on a cleared stone resting on the snow-covered beach attached to the property, looking out over the vast waters of the bay. She shields her hands from the cold by keeping them in the pockets of his coat. She cannot keep the chill from her face, as the cold air mingles with her tears. The chill does bring some clarity to her thinking. His truths hurt badly, but what he had not said was more telling. _His _motivations. He carefully chose to avoid discussing them fully, claiming to need time for more introspection. Perhaps he does, and perhaps he doesn't. _He likes music, he likes food and wine, he likes art, and he likes me. Do I like him?_ She has not intention of leaving this place yet, her pride won't allow it, nor will her resolve, but she'll be damned if she comes to him. He will have to seek her out, in the snow. He will, even if it pains him to do so, he will. One more bit of vengeance for her before they make their next moves.

She hears him, but does not turn to face him. He reaches her rock and stands for a time, watching her, no doubt.

"Did you come to lick a few more tears, doctor? Your standards must have fallen, if you have to rely on tormenting a hustling little rube like me."

He kneels, placing his face below hers and looks up at her tear-streaked face, "Clarice, please come back inside. It is very cold, and you've been outdoors for far too long."

"I like the cold. It clears my head and helps me think better," she offers, keeping her prairie level eyes focused on the water.

He sighs deeply, gently placing a hand on her cheek with his gloved hand, barely touching her. Perhaps he fears frightening her, or perhaps he himself is frightened. It is difficult to tell, "I'm glad you've had a chance to think," he offers, "and even more pleased that you have chosen to remain in this place to gather your thoughts," he adds softly.

"It isn't safe to drive yet," she replies, eyes still distant.

"Then please allow me to escort you back to my home, offer you a warm fire, something warm to drink, and place to rest. You need not worry. If you wish to remain alone after I have seen to your comfort and health, I will respect your space and privacy."

She appears to consider, and then looks at his face. His calm exterior is a source of fascination and frustration for Starling. How can a man who has been held at gunpoint, attacked, drugged, bound, and interrogated by a federal agent in less than twenty-four hours keep such composure? She is certain that she looks a mess, and she feels like she's been hit by a freight train. His gaze softens as he looks at her, allowing her to examine his features as he takes in her turmoil. _Why does he keep coming back to me? Why do I stay?_ As if reading her thoughts, he says, "You still have choices, Clarice." He reaches into his coat pockets to retrieve two small boxes, and she is surprised to find that she misses to heat of his gloved hand from her cheek.

"What are those, doctor?"

"Consider them belated gifts, one for your birthday and one for Christmas. Please come back inside, and you can choose which you would like to open first." She still hesitates. "I have been remiss in my duties as your host and caregiver. I give you my word that, so long as you treat me with the respect and consideration due your host, I will do all that I can to provide you comfort instead of more distress and sorrow. Do you believe that you are safe with me, Clarice?"

"I don't know."

"An honest answer, befitting our situation. If it's any consolation, I don't know if I am safe with you either."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Back to my proposed truce. I am ready to lay my weapon down and speak with you as, dare I say, a friend. Are you willing to do the same?"

"I only have my gun. You have a knife, your cunning, and your wicked tongue."

He offers a sad smile, "I believe you underestimate yourself, Clarice. Ready?"

She nods, and he rises and offers her a hand after placing the gifts back in his coat pocket.

"I didn't get you anything," she mutters, taking his hand as she rises, shivering and acutely aware now of how cold she is. Then she laughs at the absurdity of her statement and the situation in general, releasing a good deal of the tension wracking her body and mind.

"I consider the fact that I remain free, and that you remain in my company, gift enough," he replies with a small smile, pausing to place a gentle kiss on her hand "now let's get you inside."

Upon their return to the house, Lecter wraps Starling in a blanket and places her by the fire in the living room, leaving her there to warm while he prepares hot cocoa. He returns with two mugs and settles himself on the rug beside her, and the two sit in silence for a few moments before he speaks.

"I'm not sure that I have any right to ask, but will you tell me what you are thinking?"

"Feeling guilty?"

"I am not pleased to cause you pain, Clarice."

It is her turn to sigh, "Considering the source, that probably counts as an apology. Your insight is still hard to swallow."

"The perceptions that I brought to light are yours, Clarice, not mine. My gift and burden is to see what others hide, their innermost fears and darkest thoughts. My perceptions, as I shared with you in my letters, stand."

"Is that supposed to warm my heart?"

"I hope it will, in time. Did it help after the Fishmarket?"

"Yes, it did, in more ways than one, but that was always your intent, wasn't it?"

"Care to elaborate, Clarice?"

"I've been thinking a lot about that," she gives him her eyes at last, "seven years and not a single trace of you. Then as soon as my face hit the papers, you send a letter. Why would you risk it? I've been mulling over that question for a long time, though perhaps Jack had the best answer from the beginning." She offers a wry smile at the last.

"What, pray tell, was Jackie-boy's take on the matter?"

"He asked me if I thought you might like me, if I _feel_ you might like me."

"And what was your answer," he maintains a look of polite interest, but his eyes give nothing of his thoughts away.

"I told him that you liked to toy with me, that you were probably amused to see my loss of faith. I told him that it's hard to think that someone could know you and not wish you well, and that I had no idea how you felt about me."

"And now?"

She lowers her eyes, evading, "You knew I would turn over the letter you sent to the Bureau, even if I took comfort in the content?"

"Yes."

"You knew that would give me a way into Behavioral Science, the place I always dreamed of being?"

"Naturally."

"A chance for advancement, after I was disgraced and humiliated, just like after Miggs?"

He considers, and then nods, "Yes."

"You responded to me when I was distressed, just like before. Just like you responded to Margot Verger when she was distressed, after Mason …" she trails off, her disgust preventing her from discussing the vial perversions of Lecter's "victim." He doesn't answer, but she sees him stiffen a bit, adding an extra layer of defensive armor to his demeanor. Apparently it's his turn to be evasive. "Well, we can come back to that question. At any rate, your letter helped keep me in the Bureau, but it also put me on your trail. Mason, too. You put yourself at risk for me?"

"I helped you, yes, and it set certain events in motion. I anticipated some of these events, but not others." He smiles at the look of confusion on her face, "In spite of what many believe, I do not, in fact, possess supernatural abilities such as foreknowledge of the future. I can see patterns and predict outcomes, but sometimes, often as it pertains to you, I find myself at a loss. That is both frightening and refreshing."

His gaze is intense, and Clarice tolerates it as long as she can before averting her eyes. She experiences both extreme relief and extreme exhaustion. Lecter, sensing that she needs a break from their discussion, rises to clear the mugs. It is possible that he could use a break as well, he quietly acknowledges to himself. As he moves to the door, he hears her sigh. He looks back, and she lifts her eyes to his. They are filled with more tears and silent imploring, though she is clearly uneasy with her vulnerable state. "Clarice, tell me what you want and need, right at this moment. Tell me without fear of ridicule or reprisal."

She whispers, almost too softly to hear, "Arms."

He places the mugs on the table, and moves back to his position beside her on the rug. When she makes no offer to move closer, he reaches out a hand and she takes it, allowing him to enfold her in his arms and hold her close. He is cautious, not entirely comfortable with the proximity or degree of intimacy, though he is not entirely uncomfortable either. It was one thing to hold her acting as a phantom father, but quite something different to honor this request of _him_, made by a lucid Clarice Starling. Her tension is also evident to him. Mutual trust, if ever achieved, would be hard won, but they both begin to relax, and she places a tentative hand on his chest as he strokes her hair.

They stay together in this warm embrace until sleep takes Clarice. The doctor is not so fortunate, as much still weighs heavy in his mind. Fighting his urge to remain close to Clarice's warm sleeping form, the doctor rises, jots another note and leaves the two small boxes next to them. His next move. He cannot predict her response, though he still feels hope swelling in his heart. _A heart she accused me of lacking._ Regardless, he will see the rest through, two loose ends to be tied regardless of Clarice's choice, perhaps her final test. The doctor breathes in the scent of Clarice once more, fighting the ache of long-ago losses and losses that may yet come, before adjusting her blanket and the pillow he'd placed beneath her head, and leaves the room.

* * *

She wakes to warmth, though she knows that she is bereft of the strong arms that held her until she succumbed to much-needed sleep. The tightness in her chest and gut has diminished to twinges, and she feels no surge of panic at his absence. A small measure of security and a hint of burgeoning trust fill that space in her heart. She rises in her own time and finds his note and her gifts.

_Dear Clarice,_

_I hope that you slept well and that you woke with a restored sense of comfort and safety. It is quite pleasant to watch you sleep. Feel free to open your gifts in the order you deem appropriate. They represent some of the choices of which we spoke this afternoon, though you may feel free to take both. Consent to one does not preclude keeping the other. Consider your choices carefully, using your remaining time in this place of respite. My only condition is that you accompany me on a brief journey after the storm breaks. We must both bury the past before it consumes us. At the end of this journey, I will ask for your decision._

_Hannibal_

A wry smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. _Cryptic, as usual. I'd be likely to get blood out of a turnip sooner than a straight answer from the likes of Hannibal Lecter._ She sighs, knowing the games will continue, at least a while longer. Though, the thought of his arms around her leave her feeling warmer than she would be willing to admit to him just yet. He cuts, then he soothes. Is the healing balm worth the wounds? She supposes she'll have time to mull that question over, given her interpretation of his message.

Turning her attention to the boxes, she now considers which to open first. Silver or gold? He had written that somewhere between iron and silver is appropriate for her. She lifts the lid from the silver box. It contains a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and a letter. A quick scan of the letter reveals its purpose, and the purpose of the meds. He's given her an out. His letter is a taunt for the Bureau, describing how he kidnapped Starling, drugged her, and used hypnotics to force her actions at Muskrat farm, discarding her after his escape. They would believe it. She would never be welcomed back at the Bureau, but they would believe it and use it to cover their asses, and hers, to avoid a scandal. She could move on with another life. He's given her an out.

Feeling glad and sorry, she turns her attention to the golden box. Her breath catches in her throat as she lifts the lid. A beautiful pair of earrings, cabochon emerald stones set in white gold, rest on either side of a white gold chain holding a pendant. The fiery green emeralds match the leaves and stems of the damask rose pattern adorning the pendant, and compliment the crimson bloom within. Her single shard from the shattered teacup, forged into this most exquisite gift, as rich in symbol and significance as the sacrifices and possibilities it represents. She smiles through tears of disbelief and hope at the terrible beauty of this gift and the man who offers it. She picks up both boxes and heads for her room. She has much to do to prepare for their next meeting, over dinner no doubt. And for the first time since her arrival, she pauses to look into her mirror.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8 – In the Garden of the Hurricane's Eye

Clarice Starling descends the staircase, following the twinkling notes of the harpsichord. She pauses on the landing, closing her eyes as the crisp notes float through the darkness with heightened clarity. It is a beautiful, haunting piece, the flow of phrases combined with a near incongruity, connecting beautifully before each brief pause. She is no expert in classical compositions, though her research into Lecter's preferences had introduced her to a world of new and unexpectedly pleasant sounds. She knows enough, or at least had enough _feel_ for the territory, to recognize this piece as exotic, foreign, at least to her western ear. She will ask him about it. She is relieved, having fretted over how to break the ice this evening even more than over what to wear. She chose a long black skirt and soft emerald green cashmere sweater to accentuate her jewelry, catching her breath as she gazed in the mirror moments ago. She is herself, no longer far removed from herself, yet she barely recognized the vision staring back at her.

She enters the room quietly, not wishing to disturb the flow of the music or his apparent rapture. As his hands caress the keys of the harpsichord, she is fascinated by the expression on his face. Eyes closed, brow slightly furrowed, he appears to be elsewhere. _Where does the music take you, doctor?_ She watches him from a comfortable distance, approaching when the piece ends. He inclines his head in her direction, and then he slowly opens his eyes. They both hear the intake of his next breath.

"Clarice," he whispers, drinking in the sight of her, "if I saw you every day, forever, I would remember this time." He rises, moving to stand before her, eyes fixed on the necklace. He raises his eyes to her face and utters "Beautiful."

She smiles, "Thank you, this …" she pauses, lowering her eyes. An uncharacteristic shyness overtakes her, followed by frustration. She shakes her head and meets his eyes again, determined, "I'm not good at this, but I wanted to tell you that no one has ever given me something so beautiful or personal," her hand travels to the pendant, "I know what this means to you, and I want you to know what it means to me. And I wanted to thank you for this afternoon, for, um, taking care of me … I - "

He places a finger over her lips to quiet her, "You're welcome, Clarice."

After a moment, she composes herself, "The piece you were playing, it wasn't like anything I've heard before. What is it?"

"Prelude 338, by Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis," he says. It is the first time she has heard his native accent. "He was a composer from my homeland, Lithuania. Did you like it?"

"Very much."

"Perhaps you would enjoy hearing some of his symphonic works," he moves from the harpsichord to an armoire that conceals a rather modern sound system. More gentle notes float, brass and woodwind whisper as the wind might through tall pines. He is pleased to see that she closes her eyes, listening intently as the strings join. Once out of her reverie, he offers, "He named this work 'Into the Forest.' An apt title, to my mind at least."

"It's lovely, like walking through woodlands, but –"

"But what, Clarice?"

She hesitates, not knowing if she's heading toward dangerous territory, "It's a little sad, too, like the composer was homesick when he wrote it."

He scrutinizes her for a moment, and then he speaks before she has the chance to become too fearful, "Is there something you want to discuss? Perhaps something you wish to know about me?" He uses a low tone, offering no threat.

She draws back a bit, "I do, but … "

He sighs, deeply, and says, "You're afraid. Afraid because of the course followed by our previous conversations," then he smiles faintly, "well, with the exception of this afternoon, after we brought you in from the snow. That was quite pleasant."

She nods, "Yes, it was. Can we do that again? Now?"

"I would like that very much, Clarice. How else are we to get to know each other?"

Not one to play coy, she plunges right in, "Do you miss your home? I mean, can you ever think about it without remembering the bad things?"

He considers, "Yes, I do long for my homeland from time to time. And yes, I can picture it exactly as it was, before the war." He closes his eyes, "I carry memories that are so very vivid; I can feel the breeze on my face, the slight chill tempered by the sun as is beams through tall trees that lived long before the birth of your nation. The scents borne on that breeze, " he inhales deeply, "Rue, the Herb of repentance, bloom of endurance," exhalation, "the damp morning dew covered grasses, leaves, livestock feeding in the pasture, and wilder beasts lurking in the woods beyond." He comes back to himself. "And what of your childhood home, your parent's home? Do you hold fond memories, aside from oranges and snowballs? Did you ever return there?"

"I can remember summers, mostly. We were outside all the time, doing chores and just runnin' round," she reverted to her old accent a bit, just as she always did when she returned to her childhood. Rather than being a nuisance to his ears, he the doctor found it oddly endearing. She closed her eyes now, mimicking his reminiscences. "I remember the air hangin' low, the sweet smell of honeysuckle, the damp on my feet as we moved through the fields, sucking on that old sweet nectar and pickin' blackberries. My Mama put up preserves every year, and the kitchen just got hotter than the blazes. So we'd sit out on the porch and listen to the jarflies and crickets chirpin'. I guess that was my symphony." She smiles, something rare for Clarice Starling as she recalls her past.

"It sounds idyllic," the doctor offers, with no hint of mockery.

"I never did go back, after the ranch and after the orphanage, I was just too busy trying to get by with school. I had to work part-time to pay for my clothes and books, and full time in the summers to support myself. UVA was good enough to let me stay in the dorm during summers. My Mama passed, I heard, and my little brother. I don't know what happened to Tommy and Grace. Did you ever go back? To Lithuania?"

"Once, as a young man. I had some . . . unfinished business."

Clarice didn't push, not quite ready to hear about the fate of the looters, though she could guess easily enough. "I have some other questions, but I'm not certain I should ask them. If I have permission?"

"You may ask me anything you like, Clarice. I may or may not choose to answer."

"Why did you take those drugs? Did you use them to tap into your memories? Like you used them to, to -" she cannot bring herself to use the word 'help,' though it did. She still holds enough resentment over the ordeal, and is unwilling to address it just yet.

"Yes, Clarice, I did. As to your earlier question, about Dear Freddy," he pauses, reluctant to dredge up the unpleasant subject, for her sake, "he enjoyed torments ranging from petty to rather severe. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, he is not longer in the business of hospital administration or patient care."

Clarice considers, weighing her anger and outrage over Chilton's treatment of the doctor, and over Chilton in general. _The perverted little shit_. She weighs it with her unease with the doctor's way of . . . _dealing_ with . . . _problems_. And, honestly, she really doesn't want to end this very pleasant and enlightening conversation just yet. "I'm sorry he hurt you. I'm glad he won't be able to do that anymore, to you or to anyone else."

The doctor is surprised, though his face gives nothing away. Perhaps there's hope after all. He leans over and places a light kiss on her cheek, delighted with her soft gasp, "Barney's presence made the experience much more tolerable, I assure you. I'm so pleased to know you care, Clarice. Now, if you'll excuse me, my dear, I must see to dinner preparations. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He turns to leave, and is surprised when a hand tentatively grasps his shoulder, and her soft voice says, "May I join you? I'm not much of a cook, really. Well, honestly I have a hard time boiling an egg," she giggles at his arched brow, "no, seriously, it's that bad! But, I think I should help. You've been doing all of the cooking and I haven't lifted a finger since I've been here. Besides, I would like to talk some more."

"I would be pleased with the company, though I wonder if you simply wish to keep an eye on the food preparations," he pauses, suppressing a smile as her face contorts with discomfort followed by annoyance. Before she can speak again, he follows with, "and steal my best recipes." He winks, she balks, and then he laughs. It is one of the strangest and most warming sounds she's ever heard.

"I think your recipes might be a bit too . . . complex for me. Oh hell, Hannibal! Just when I think I can relax you go and do this!"

"Do what?" He smiles, showing his small white teeth. They glint in the candlelight.

"That!" She points accusingly, "That right there! That's meant to scare me, to, to, to remind me about parts of your, um, personality that I'm just not comfortable with!"

"Clarice, it was only a joke. Believe it or not, I'm trying to ease my way into uncharted territory as well."

"Yeah, well," she cannot quite counter, so she just throws her hands up in the air and then softly brings them down, taking a deep breath. "OK, OK. Point taken. Can I just go with you to the damned kitchen?"

"You _may_."

"Oh don't EVEN correct my grammar, doctor!"

"Habit Clarice," he raises his hands in surrender as she makes to counter, "enough for now. Please, join me." He offers his elbow, and she accepts, steeling herself for the next round of getting to know the cannibal.

* * *

A/N – The music Hannibal plays was composed an actual Lithuanian musician and artist. If you care to listen (it is really quite nice – different from most classical music with which I am familiar at least), PM me for the links, or just Google the name along with "audio files."

Do the same for the flowers and landscape references. I just looooooooooove research, especially about exotic locales. The spoken language is quite captivating as well. Apparently it is as close to the proto/Indo-European dialect from which most European languages are derived as you can get.

We'll have a bit more calm before the next storm. Thanks for your patience, dear readers. I think I'm back on track. Oh, and FYI, for you non-Southerners - in my neck of the woods (and probably Clarice's) we don't say cicada. We call 'em jarflies.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9 – Storm's Edge

As they move to the kitchen, Clarice decides to that she needs to lay some ground rules for the evening, for her own comfort. She thinks the doctor won't mind, given his offer and his attentiveness to her needs and wishes. "Hannibal, would it be alright if we have an informal dinner tonight? I know that the big production is very you, but it just isn't me." she tries to read his expression, without success, "That's not to say that I don't enjoy your cooking or all of the frills, I just want to keep things simple and relaxed tonight!"

"Clarice, you don't need to justify or defend your requests. I am a reasonable man –"

Her laughter stops him mid-sentence. She just can't help herself, "Oh, I'm sorry, really. It's just funny, you, know, that kind of assertion coming from you." She continues to giggle, while he offers a small smile.

"Perhaps, someday, you won't be so incredulous. Now then, since you wish to make dinner an informal affair, what, may I ask, did you have in mind?"

"I can make a request from the master chef?"

"Of course," he bows his head a bit, "tell me what you desire, Clarice," he enunciates every syllable, his tongue caressing each syllable, "you have only to ask."

She freezes, not quite willing to acknowledge the shiver his words send through her, "I, um, I think I would like some waffles, fruit, and sausage or bacon if you have it." The look on his face is priceless, and she's glad for the unintentional shift in mood, "I love breakfast for dinner! Ardelia and I do it all the time after a long week. Sometimes we throw in chocolate chips for the waffles if we've had a really bad week. It's a girl, comfort food kind of thing."

He shakes his head, then bows again, "As you wish, Clarice, though I'm fresh out of chocolate chips, I do have some German chocolate decaf, if that would suffice."

"Sounds great! What can I do?"

"Can you handle the coffee maker?"

"That I _can_ do."

After he shows her the coffee nook, she sets about brewing and relishes the rich aroma as it fills the kitchen. She then turns her attention to Hannibal Lecter at work, measuring, sifting, and mixing the batter for home made waffles, apparently from memory, as she sees no cookbook. He moves with grace, and she takes in his form as he works. He removed his jacket shortly after they arrived in the kitchen, and she can see the outline of his wiry arm muscles through his shirt. He appears to be in pretty good shape, especially considering his age. Not that Clarice really gave that much thought. To her, the doctor has always seemed ageless. Sexless is another matter entirely, though she is honest enough with herself to admit that the thought has crossed her mind. Mrs. Rosencrantz was right; he is the sort of man who could make a girl's fur crackle. Of course, looks are an accident, but his mind, his manner, his _presence_ are what really make Hannibal Lecter captivating. His deeds are another matter entirely. This is what Clarice must wrestle with over the coming days.

"Clarice, are you going to gawk all night, or could I trouble you to prepare the fruit while I work on the sausage?"

Busted! "Sure," she sets about washing and cutting and wondering how she might manage a life with a man who literally has eyes in the back of his fucking head. She attempts to slice some apples, but she isn't nearly as deft with a kitchen knife as she is with a gun. Heaving a sigh of frustration, she sets the first macerated red Gala aside and steels herself to do battle with the next. She gasps as she feels warm breath on her neck and a voice at her ear.

"Need some help, Clarice?" he whispers. She manages a nod as she tries not to tense. "Then allow me... " he murmurs, placing his hands over hers as they grasp the fruit and knife together. He guides her hands, and she feels the certainty and strength within his hands as they neatly chop the apple into quarters. After removing sections of core, his hands instruct hers in the art of slicing two of the quarters, and then he removes his hands, but not his body, as she completes the remaining two. She turns to face him, sporting a triumphant grin, which he returns, "Well done, Clarice." He hesitates before placing a kiss on her forehead, gentle at first, then increasing in pressure before he removes himself with apparent urgency. "I should see to your waffles."

Clarice regains her composure and finishes the fruit, while Hannibal finishes his preparation and presentation. "Would you like to eat at the kitchen table, Clarice?" he asks, his voice thick.

"Sure," she offers, still a little unsteady. She isn't sure whether the butterflies in her stomach (and some perhaps a bit lower) or his uncertainty, are more unsettling. _Well, he did admit that he's in uncharted territory, too._ She seats herself and he places a plate in front of her, complete with a waffle, maple syrup, and a side of sausage. Placing the bowl of fruit between them, he seats himself. Being a good sport, he joins Clarice in what is, for him, a rather unconventional meal.

When the silence threatens to become uncomfortable, Clarice decides to plunge right in. "Hannibal, I would like to ask you some questions about your gift, and the choices you wrote about in your letter."

He meets her eyes, though his expression is unfathomable, "What do you wish to know?"

"The choices that I have ... they are to remain with you, in some capacity ... um, or to leave this place and reclaim whatever's left of my life?"

"A succinct and accurate summary, yes."

"And, if I choose to leave, you'll just _let_ me?"

"Of course, you'll be free to leave at any time. You know I never lie. All I ask is that you defer your decision until we finish the journey we began together after Muskrat farm."

"What exactly does that involve?"

He sighs, "I'm afraid, Clarice, that you are going to have to trust me and wait until the storm breaks. I understand from the local weather report that the roads should be passable the day after tomorrow. I ask for your patience, and for the next day and a half I will be most content with your company."

She sees the resolve in his eyes, and decides to move on. "So, what would you expect of me, if I stay with you?"

"Circumlocution, Special Agent Starling?"

"Would you prefer I speak frankly?"

"Always."

"Fine, what am I to you? A patient? A friend? A pet, maybe?"

He sighs heavily, and rises to clear the plates. "Oh, Clarice," he whispers.

"That's no answer, Hannibal."

"If you were nothing more to me than a patient or a _pet_," he almost spits out the last, his annoyance and distaste more than evident, "I could have kept you drugged and manipulated you indefinitely. I am capable of that, and much, much more." His eyes darken, as does his countenance.

"I know what you are capable of, _doctor_," her prairie level eyes keep his and take nothing back, "I doubt no one other than Will Graham knows better than I. Yet, you gave me back my will, and my choices. I want to know why."

"If you are to remain with me, in any capacity, you will do so of your own volition and with a full understanding of the consequences. Anything less is beneath my dignity, and yours." His eyes narrow, face contorting from the weight of the admission.

The weight of the admission strikes Clarice as well, though she will not relent, "What will be the consequences, Hannibal, and what must I understand that I don't already know?"

"For that, you must wait." He turns to leave, placing his hand on the doorknob, and is stilled by her hand on his shoulder.

"What do you want with me?"

He shudders, whispering, "Need you even ask, Clarice? After Memphis, after Muskrat farm, after everything?"

She gently turns him to face her, saddened to see his face so guarded. "Hannibal, tell me what you want and need, right at this moment. Tell me without fear of ridicule or reprisal."

He smiles softly, bringing one hand to her face and gently caressing her cheek, "That isn't fair, Clarice, using my own words against me."

"Maybe not, but I would like an answer."

"No one has ever asked me such a question."

"No one had ever asked me either, until you." She moves closer to him, determined to break through his resistance.

"In that case, I will give you an answer. I want you." With that, he bridges the remaining distance between them and places his lips over hers. They kiss slowly, gently, until Clarice loses her patience and pulls him to her, bruising his lips with an urgency she was unaware she possessed. His arms enfold her as they kiss for a minute, an hour, an eternity. Time is lost for both at the moment. It is he who breaks the kiss.

He steps back, in spite of her groan of protest and attempt to pull him back, "Clarice," he murmurs with a voice roughened by desire, "as much as I wish to continue this, and believe me, I _do_ wish to continue, I think we should wait a bit."

She stares at him, dumbfounded, "_Wait_? After seven years and all of the hell we've been through in the past weeks you want to _wait_?" Her anger wells, the familiar sting of rejection and abandonment threatening to overtake her.

"Clarice," he begins gently, "I _don't_ want to wait. But, as I said, I want you to make your choice with your eyes wide open, and only after –"

"After what? What in the hell is so important about this 'journey' you keep taking about? God, I'm so sick and fucking tired of talking! Don't you get it? You've won! I'll go with you! I'll go to the ends of the earth with you, Hannibal Lecter!"

"Even knowing what I've done, what I am? Can you live with that? Psychology student that you are, you understand the difficulties of reparation? Can you live with what I might yet do?"

She hesitates a bit, but then says, "I don't know, but I'm willing to try. I know I need to protect you, to keep you safe. That's all I've ever wanted for you. Hell, I even told Ardelia that if you were ever cornered that I would like to take point and go in after you. I knew if I did, you would have a better shot of coming out alive. I'll stay with you and do whatever is in my power to keep you of harm's way."

He considers for a moment, and then says, "Clarice, you never cease to surprise me. Very well. If you can wait a few more hours, I believe there is a way for us to complete our journey ahead of schedule. Let me make a quick phone call."

"How? How can we travel anywhere tonight? The snow's stopped, but the roads –"

"Margot Verger owes me a favor, and I believe she would like to be out of my debt sooner rather than later. I'll ask her to send her helicopter. You'll have to bundle up, and we'll both have to make a few modifications to our appearance, but I believe it is possible for us to finish this tonight. After that, we'll see if your offer still stands. Go and pack whatever you wish to take with you when you've made your choice. I'll make the rest of the preparations."

With a profound sense of excitement and dread, Clarice Starling prepares for the night's journey.

* * *

Notes – I'm no psychologist, but I came across an interesting article from Bettina Gregory [Hannibal Lecter: The honey in the lion's mouth. _American Journal of Psychotherapy_ 2002. 56, 1; Heath Module, pg. 100-114] that deals with the theory behind Hannibal Lecter's murderous pathology and his path toward reparation. Not sure I buy all of the psychobabble about "good objects," "bad objects," "oral aggression," etc., but it is an interesting read if anyone wants a copy.

It may take a while to get the next chapters out – I'm swamped at work and am going on a nice, long vacation in mid-July – but I promise lots of suspense, action, and hopefully a few more thrills along the way. Lemons, you ask? Well, you know me ... so it's entirely possible :) Thanks for sticking with me. I'll try not to be a great big tease!

Also, here's a big shout out to Mystic Dust for the reviews! I wasn't able to PM you to say thanks, so I'll do it here.

And ... Great big thanks to Sylistra The Scholar for one of the most flattering and gracious reviews I've ever gotten. I'm humbled and gratified, and I hope that the rest of the story lives up to your kind words.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10 – Journey Through the Inferno

Clarice Starling knows how to travel light. Being bereft of material comforts for most of her early life, she continues to forsake luxury for the needful. A few clothes, toiletries, and her personal effects lie in a small duffle bag, along with the silver box that Hannibal insisted she take. His insistence on this troubles her more than his tight-lipped secrecy. She was ready to run with him tonight. More than ready. What has he done, what will he do, that he imagines could make her change her mind?

Time seemed to slow during her wait, so she kept herself busy by cleaning every surface of her room, his room, the study, and the drawing room. Clarice had insisted that she was working so furiously in order to cover their tracks, removing large and trace forensic evidence of their presence in this place. At least the doctor had the courtesy not to comment, though they both recognize it as a coping mechanism. Now finished with the kitchen, she clutches the pendant suspended from her neck, her talisman, as she waits for him in the kitchen. She had twisted her hair into a loose bun, covered by both a snug winter beanie and the hood of her thick parka. Her field experience taught her that subtle changes are enough to fool the casual observer, and Hannibal assured her that their pilot would be too preoccupied with the inclement weather and his handsome courier fee to recognize them.

He enters the kitchen with two large bags. She notes his colored contact lenses, nodding with satisfaction. Aside from Mason, Margot, and their henchmen, no one other than Clarice has seen the doctor's current face. She takes in her surroundings, wanting to remember this place of limbo, as he called it. She hopes that, in spite of the pain she experienced in the last few days, she will always recall it as a place of rebirth, of comfort, and of awakening. She holds onto that now, those memories another talisman against whatever is to come.

"I will miss this place," he says, partly to himself.

"Me too," she replies, "I don't want to leave. It feels safe." She fights back a few tears, tears of hope, longing, and dread, "Will we still be safe, where we are going?"

He moves toward her, taking her hand, and she is glad that neither have donned gloves yet, "Clarice, we will never be truly safe."

She sighs, "I know that. I'm not a fool, Hannibal. If this little exercise of yours is meant to show me what life will be like on the run, it isn't really necessary. I've been on the other side long enough to know what I'm getting into."

"Seeing it from the 'other side,' as you say, may give you more insight than most, but you cannot fully appreciate what maintaining and protecting our freedom will entail until you are faced with the prospect of losing it. Clarice, if you choose a life with me, your limits will be tested. Starting tonight."

She's pretty sure he isn't just talking about their first trip outside of this sanctuary in disguise, but she suspects he will tell her no more. Still, she decides to try, "So what's the test?"

"Pardon?"

"You said it yourself. This is some sort of test, right? Just like the little scavenger hunt in Raspail's car, or 'applying' myself to your old friend Sammie's problem," she furrows her brow in consternation, muttering, "Always another game. I would have thought that I'd already proven myself."

He turns her chin toward his face, a little rougher than intended, "I'm not looking for a _student_. School's been out for a while. I'm looking for a partner. An _equal_."

Before she has the chance to reply, the sound of an approaching helicopter interrupts. Grabbing their bags, Hannibal signals to Clarice that it's time to leave. She grabs her own bag from his shoulder before he can protest, leaving him to lock up. They both trot as fast as the snow-covered landscape allows, moving to a large clearing not far from the house. His hand on her arm stops her well short of the tree line. "Careful. The pilot will have to land by instruments. Once the blades disturb the snow, he won't be able to see us."

"Hannibal, I've worked a lot of jump outs. I know the drill." He nods, and they watch as the helicopter descends, its landing lights illuminating the snow and red beacon creating a strobe effect.

"Kind of like being in our own personal snow globe, huh?" She quips, trying to break some of the tension. She watches him as he surveys the landing site, the helicopter's rapid descent causing a miniature blizzard. His jaw clenches, but he appears calm otherwise. Still, she clasps his hand in solidarity and offers comfort she thinks that he might need. He doesn't pull away, but she feels tension running from his shoulder and arm.

She tugs to get his attention, and he gives her an inquisitive glance before squeezing her hand in return and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, "This is new for me, too."

"It's O.K. to lean on me, you know?"

"I know."

They both watch as the turning blades slow enough to stop the mini-blizzard, and begin to move toward their transport before the snow fully settles. Their pilot hops out and grabs one of the large bags and tosses it in cargo hold bird while Clarice and Hannibal follow suit. "Helluva night to be out, huh?"

"It sure is, friend. We 'preciate ya!" Clarice is glad that the sound of the engine blocks out her snort at the doctor's feigned down-home accent.

"No prob. We get a lot of last minute travelers out here. Lobbyists and legislators, you know. Duty calls, huh, counselor?"

"It does, indeed. Ms. Verger is a gem of a client, and with her recent loss –"

"Say no more. I know she'll be glad to get the estate settled and put all of this behind her. Family's been through a lot. Once I drop you, I'll head back to base since I'll be at Bingo fuel. Just have Ms. Verger call out to dispatch 30 minutes ahead and I can pick you up tonight or tomorrow. When's your flight out of D.C.?"

"We're flexible. Thanks for the heads up," then turning to Clarice, "Ladies first," he helps her climb into the cabin and follows before she can protest. After they strap in, their pilot pulls the collective to begin their ascent. The doctor is glad of the short flight, as he anticipates a fair amount of grief from his companion now that their destination has been revealed.

* * *

After the pilot lands and the snow settles, Hannibal and Clarice exit. The doctor signals for her to wait beside the nearby ATV as he and the pilot load their bags into the small trailer attached to the back. After shaking hands with their pilot, Hannibal returns to a visibly shaken Clarice Starling, though to her credit, she maintained a brave face for the duration of the flight.

He takes her hand and forces her to look in his eyes, "Clarice, my beautiful warrior, we've left the safety of Limbo. Now you and I must brave last ring of the Inferno –"

"No! Please, Hannibal, why are you doing this to me, to yourself? I don't want to go there, not back to the barn, oh dear God no!" She rips her hand from his and places it on her temple, where it mirrors its companion on the opposite side of her head, "No, no no," she mutters as she paces back and forth, "I can't, we just can't -"

"Clarice!" He shouts, grabbing her and shaking, "You've already resisted Krendler's lust, Mason's gluttony and depraved appetites, their combined avarice, as I made Pazzi pay for his. We battled each other and overcame our _wrath_, our rage against one another, and against ourselves," his eyes are wide, pleading, something she has never witness in him before. "You battled the heretics that were your superiors, who would speak and act against what you know to be true and just. You and I," his voice breaks, hands trembling in spite of their iron grip, "we've seen so much violence. It has plagued and damaged both of our lives, the violence we've witnessed and inflicted. You fought the lies that those above you would have had you embrace, you've come so far already," he bellows, "we must face this final circle and be rid of our betrayer if we are to ever be FREE!"

"What in the hell are you playing at? This isn't Dante, Doctor! I've been through enough hell already, haven't you?" She screams, wrenching herself from his grasp only to be recaptured as pulls her closer, his face in hers, "This isn't a game, goddamn it! Mason's men could still be here, FBI agents, local police, looking for evidence, looking for us! Do you want to be locked up forever? Do you want to die? We barely got out alive last time! You told me Mason was dead! Why did you bring us back to this horrible place?"

"Mason wasn't the only traitor, Clarice."

She freezes in her tracks, whirling on him, "Margot? You said she owes you a debt. Will she have to pay it in blood?"

"Not in her own, Clarice. She has provided us transportation, safe passage, and a venue."

"A venue for what? Why would she owe you?" Clarice isn't certain she really wants to know.

"Margot killed Mason. I agreed to take the blame so that she could keep her freedom and the estate. You now know what I know, and, should you choose to go your own way, she will be compelled to offer assistance. I've put you on equal footing now. As for the rest, you must now trust me. We have one last loose end to tie."

"Paul Krendler," she whispers, staring at the doctor in shock at the realization, "Oh, Hannibal, what have you done?"

"I've completed preparations. What remains, _we_ must do. No loose ends, Clarice. It's the only way."

* * *

Hannibal draws parallels between Clarice's struggles with the Bureau and with him (and his own trials) and the 9 circles of hell described in Dante's _Inferno_. Oh what he must have in mind for the unfortunate Mr. Krendler . . .

I owe a GREAT big HUGE thanks to my husband, the pilot, for lending authentic touches to the helicopter flight. He's such a sport about my dark and arguably geeky hobby :)

As always, thanks to my lovely readers for sticking with the story and for the reviews.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11 – The Ninth Circle

"Where is Krendler?" Clarice whispers, her mind catching up and horror sinking in, "What are you going to do, Hannibal?"

Having recovered his control and composure, Lecter speaks in a casual and pleasant tone, as one might use over dinner, "Clarice, Mr. Krendler is safely tucked away and waiting for us," he raises his arms, palms out as she begins to balk, "don't worry, he's not in the barn I assure you."

"You're going to kill him." It wasn't a question.

"No, I'm not."

"Then what?"

He extends his hand, "Do you believe that you are safe with me, Clarice?"

"I want to." She places her trembling hand into his, amazed and disturbed by his apparent lack of anxiety or fear, save the deep sigh that escapes his chest.

"That will have to do." He leads her to the ATV and bids her to climb aboard. In the meantime, he takes a cell phone from the trailer, pre-paid and untraceable she can only assume, though she bids Jack Crawford to vacate her mind. Through the haze of her dread, she comprehends only clips of his conversation with the party on the other end of the line. _He's ready? Wrap put on before you placed him? Less than an hour, yes very good . . ._ After a few moments she becomes aware of Hannibal's voice near her ear and she returns to the present. "Clarice, it's time to go. Remember, you are a warrior." With that, he slips in front of her and starts the vehicle. They ride for at least 15 minutes, by her estimation. She has no idea how he navigates, as the snow and darkness have obscured most landmarks, and much of the land on the Verger property, particularly Muskrat farm, consists of unkempt woods. Flashes of the dreadful night of her last visit flood her mind. Her eyes register heavy machinery at points along the path, backhoes and mini-dozers, some of them look to have been used recently. They were no doubt employed by the authorities to recover bodies and flush out the pigs. Clarice tenses when they stop and she spies lights from the barn a short distance away. The doctor feels it, and he places a comforting hand on her shoulder after climbing from the ATV, before unloading something from the back.

"Take this," he says, offering her the crossbow, "we might need it."

"I packed my gun," she says flatly.

"Bring it too, if you must."

She reaches into her bag for the gun, placing it in her ankle holster before taking the crossbow. They travel on foot the same path that they had driven, stopping just shy of a small clearing. It is too dark for Clarice to see clearly, but she is able to discern something disturbing the uneven blanket of snow, which has also been disturbed; dark shapes that appear to be arranged in a circle.

"Be a dear and cover me, would you?" Hannibal Lecter says this as he moves to the clearing. In a few moments, the illumination of candles begins to fill the clearing, and Clarice cannot believe her eyes. Two elegant candelabras flank the scene, the tableau an elegant setting fit for a holiday feast. Cornucopias filled with fruit and great heads of lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, and bunches of carrots spread out on the snow. There is something she cannot identify in the center, something smaller, round, and covered with a sheath of purple velvet. She jumps when the something under the sheath moves.

Hannibal Lecter removes the sheath of velvet, and Clarice Starling stares in shock and horror at the head of Paul Krendler. He has been buried up to his shoulders in the ground below, snow carefully replaced and packed around his form and beneath the surrounding accoutrements. _Oh my dear God, he's still alive!_ His eyes are dull, from the early stages of hypothermia, or perhaps he has been drugged. It is difficult to tell. He lifts his gaze to meet the doctor, who offers a pleasant salutation, "Good evening, Mr. Krendler. Thank you for joining us."

"Where am I?" He asks, his voice sluggish, "Who the fuck are you?"

"The physical space you occupy is Mason Verger's property, though I suppose you do not recognize this particular patch. You were conspicuously absent when last I was here. Pity, as you were largely responsible for my involuntary visit. I thought it only polite to return the favor."

"What? This doesn't make any sense. I'm supposed to meet with Parton Vellmore, you know -"

"Ah yes, you were on your way to catch the Verger helicopter. You caught a ride with me, instead. You don't remember?"

Krendler strains to move his neck, and his eyes dart, taking in his surroundings. After a few minutes, confusion turns to disbelief, and fear creeps across his features. "Wait a minute, you aren't, I mean, you can't be . . . Jesus Christ! HELP! SOMEBODY FUCKING HELP ME! HEEEEEEEEEELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" He screams only a short while, unable to expand his lungs sufficiently with the pressure of cold earth. His cries end as dry rasps, no doubt stifled by the frigid air.

"Are you quite finished? Really, Paul, if you can't maintain a civilized conversation, perhaps you should refrain from speaking."

"That bull-dyke cunt Verger bitch sold me out!" He manages, his voice rough, "Stupid bitches always sticking their noses where they don't belong! Margot-fucking-Verger and that cornbread country cunt Starling! Did you eat her, or did the pigs get her? Who the fuck cares, right?" He laughs maniacally before continuing his tirade, "Oh, I'm sure you got her first."

"Well, you were kind enough to use Agent Starling as bait, in exchange for Mason's 30 pieces of silver."

"I hope you fucked her till she bled before you cut her up, the goddamned whore! How much is the dyke paying you for this, huh? I got money and connections, too. You know you won't get away with this, you fucking psycho!"

Dr. Lecter maintains a look of polite interest all the while, before moving removing a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket and placing it over Krendler's mouth. "No, no," he soothes, "don't struggle, or you'll hyperventilate. Be a good boy while I speak with Clarice."

Krendler's eyes widen, and he scans the area. He finds Clarice Starling just within his peripheral vision, taking in her form as the doctor does the same. She holds the armed crossbow at the ready, pointing in their direction. Krendler makes muffled sounds of terror through his bonds. Dr. Lecter merely smiles.

"You bastard!" She yells, "Is _this_ the final test? Damn you to hell, Hannibal Lecter!"

"In for a penny, in for a pound, Clarice?" He says calmly, "It is not my intention to force your hand. Free will, Clarice, is my gift to you, as you bear witness to the events I've set in motion. You have your will and several weapons. You know he cannot be allowed to live, knowing what he knows, and having tried to destroy both of us. Earlier this evening, you claimed to know what I am capable of?"

"Oh God, don't do this Hannibal-"

"Reading case files and viewing postmortem photos isn't quite the same, I assure you. Mr. Brigham's training prepared you for dealing with Jame Gumb and Evelda Drumgo, but nothing comes close to the experience, does it, Clarice? It doesn't compare to the adrenaline rush, the _sound_ as the bullets enter flesh, the _smell_ of gunpowder and blood? Simulations and case studies are no substitute. You will know all of me, and then you will decide."

"Hannibal!" She pleads.

"Eyes wide open, Clarice," he declares with finality, before brandishing the harpy, bending, and neatly slicing Paul Krendler's cheeks one after the other as Krendler's head thrashes and his bound mouth offers muted screams. He cleans the blade with a handkerchief and then moves to the edge of the clearing to retrieve a boom box, which he places on the outer rim of the circle. He hits the play button and pierces the cold night air with the sounds of screams, like those Clarice heard on that terrible night just before she reached Lecter in the barn. It is the same sound that summoned the pigs. _The pigs! Oh Jesus, the pigs!_ Finally, Lecter removes the duct tape from Krendler's mouth.

"Starling, you fucking bitch! Get me the fuck out of here!"

She stands frozen for untold minutes before she is aware of shadows moving through the trees. _The pigs are coming! Fuck!_ Dr. Lecter stands at the opposite end of the clearing and waits. _What the hell is he waiting for?_ It dawns on her, then, the terrible truth. She could take her chances with the crossbow and gun, but she'd never manage to bring down all of them before they get to Krendler, to her, to the doctor. She can run. Would he run with her, or think her a coward? Oh God, how she wants to run! Or, she could shoot Hannibal Lecter, putting an end to this long enough to call the authorities, maybe keep the pigs at bay if she can turn off the tape. _Never forget what he is_. Those words echo in her mind. She has never for one second forgotten with whom she is dealing. Paul Krendler betrayed them both and tried to kill them, but does he deserve this? Will this be the way of the world within reach of her arm?

Tick tock, tick tock. She is herself, and not herself. She chooses, and the arrow flies.

* * *

A/N – That was really, really mean of me. I know. But you'll be back for the next chapter. You know you will . . .

The scenario I concocted has shades of Dante, and is also reminiscent, it occurs to me, of the deliciously campy horror film _Motel Hell_. I did promise the good doctor that he could misbehave. Hopefully he's satisfied.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12 – To the Mountain of Purgatory

As the doctor watches from afar, he briefly retreats to his Memory Palace to retrieve the notes he has in mind for this momentous occasion. The Goldberg Variations simply would not do, he decides. In an act of pure whimsy, he allows the notes of Mussorgsky's _Night on Bald Mountain_ to fill his inner sphere, seeing and feeling each individual tone, partitioning them until time seems to visibly slow. Starling is aiming. Her arm appears unusually heavy as she lifts the crossbow. He watches her intently, furrows appearing between her brows, a soft glow from the fresh sheen of sweat that appears on her face in spite of the cold. He watches for any sign of decision, his actions dependent upon her choices. Her anguish is particularly painful to behold in this heightened state. It has been over 40 years since he felt the full force of such helplessness, during another dark winter. She is facing her inferno as he relives his own, and as Dante imagined, their hell is cold. _So very cold._

Her right eye twitches ever so slightly, the motion exaggerated through the tempo of the music in his mind. Hesitation. She is considering her choices. _Shoot the pigs? No, of course not, too many, far too many. Run? Fly back to school, Little Starling? Back to that scared and lonely girl you once were? Back to your lonely and empty life? I would never, ever consider your actions those of cowardice, but no, I will not follow. You know it? Yes, I see that you do. Will you destroy me, Clarice? It is within your power to do so. I shall make no effort to resist. Perhaps I built better than I knew. What will you do, Clarice? Tick tock, tick tock. Ah, she has decided._

The arrow flies on the wild, arching crescendo of strings, a cacophony of the violent violin, cello, and double bass vibrations interrupted by the D below middle C from a solitary crossbow. He grips the cord in his right hand, fibers of strong Polysteel, timing his fierce tug with his estimation of the arrow's velocity. The iridescent rope tenses and jerks Krendler's body left in a rough lurch. Crude, but it is effective. In spite of Clarice's deadly aim, the arrow misses its mark.

Releasing the rope, he flings his harpy at the boom box and the shrieks and screams that flow into his consciousness stop even as his internal music fades. He watches her as horror morphs into disbelief. He quirks a brow, but does not dare smirk. Instead, he sets to work securing the rope to a pulley system hanging from a low branch of a nearby tree. It takes a few backbreaking pulls, but he manages to extricate Krendler from the earth. The soil holding Krendler was not packed tightly, as per the good doctor's instructions. While Krendler lacked the range of motion and leverage to escape his earthen prison, a bit of tugging and elbow grease is all it takes to uproot him. Once suspended in the air, he makes no effort to free himself. It is difficult to determine whether he is in shock or simply weakened from prolonged exposure to the cold. Perhaps both.

"Clarice," the doctor calls in a clear voice, calm belying his sense of urgency. The pigs are circling just within the tree line, and they will not stand idle for long, "we must go." Lecter retrieves the arrow from the ground near Krendler's former resting place. He leaves the harpy behind.

Starling remains still, her ears apparently out of synch with her mind and body. She is suffering from shock as well, and the cold isn't helping. The doctor moves to her and grasps her shoulders, "Clarice, can you hear me?"

She does not react, so he shakes her, "Clarice!"

"You said you wouldn't kill him," she mutters, "you said that. You don't lie. You wanted me to kill him, you wanted . . . but you stopped me . . ." Coming back to herself little by little, she looks at him and asks, "What now?"

"It's over, Clarice. Let's go."

"But Paul . . ."

"I will not kill him, Clarice. Mr. Krendler will succumb to hypothermia in less than a few hours. He will feel no pain. The pigs will not reach him. If and when his remains are discovered by the authorities, the only evidence that they will find is evidence of _my_ presence. Your choices are still open."

"Then why?" Her voice is that of a small child, as is her question.

"You know all of me," he begins, "or as much of me as any other being can possibly know. If you choose me, I can trust your choice, and so can you. I know the extremes to which you can and will go to preserve our safety. And so do you."

No longer able to focus as her strength and will to fight leave her, she takes his hand and submits to his direction. He leads them back to the waiting ATV and they drive. She is vaguely aware of his calm voice as he makes arrangements for their departure from Muskrat farm. Everything else is a blur, the flight, their landing, and the long car ride during which she succumbs to slumber.

He wakes her gently with soothing tones, "Clarice, I am leaving you for a moment to make arrangements for our lodging. I shall return soon to escort you. You only need to hold yourself together until we reach our suite. Can you manage?"

"Yes," she whispers. She almost believes it.

He looks at her with something akin to tenderness, and in spite of her turmoil it calms her. When he returns, she allows him to guide her to through the elegant lobby of their hotel and to their rooms. Her brain registers his assistance undressing her and placing her in warm pajamas, having just enough coherence to be amused at how he must detest flannel. _He knows I like it_. He leads her to a warm bed, tucking her in, and encouraging her to sleep.

Once more, she sleeps while he watches and waits. _She came with me._ The doctor allows a small glimmer of hope to fill his heart, and then schools his emotions to neutrality. He still cannot predict what she will do tomorrow, when the events of the past twenty-four hours come crashing down with brutal clarity in the harsh light of day. For now all he can do is watch and wait. Tick tock, tick tock.

A/N – So, maybe my Hollywood-inspired scenario was a bit of a . . . stretch. A friend who knows waaaaaaaay more about this sort of thing than he probably should assures me that it is within the realm of possibility. Anyway, fuck it! It was fun to write! I promise to try and get the next chapter out a little faster. Thanks for your patience!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13 – Purgatorio

Clarice wakes from a fitful rest, though her instincts register that it is late in the morning. She is alone in her room. Rising from a sea of sheets, she struggles to sort through the jumbled thoughts swimming through her mind, not to mention the jumbled emotions. _Everything was going fine. Well, after he drugged me, I tried to shoot him, he tried to knife me . . . and then I drugged him . . . well, O.K., after that, everything seemed to be going fine. Then he had to go and take me back to the Verger place to . . . to . . . test me! What the fuck?_ She doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, kiss him, or kill him. If she ever had any doubt about what he is, what he can do, she doesn't anymore. He's right. She knows him. Does she know herself, and what she can live with? That's the question. _What's the answer?_

Before delving into even more angst-ridden introspection, a prospect she isn't relishing anyway, Clarice decides to take care of more immediate issues. After peeing for what feels like an hour, she decides once more to defer introspection by acquiring an extremely large huge cup of coffee. Of course, to do this, she's going to have to leave her bedroom and venture out into the suite. That probably means she's going to run into _him_. Not a good option, she thinks. _I'm soooooooo not ready for that yet._ She wonders if she can get room service to bring coffee and breakfast directly to her room within the suite, bypassing him. A noise from outside her door ends her musing.

She laughs when she sees the slip of paper slide underneath her door. She laughs quite maniacally. "Are we back to notes?" She calls to the other side as she stoops to pick up the paper, "I thought we'd moved beyond that."

He replies in a calm tone, "I thought, perhaps, you might need a little more time to process the events of last evening before we spoke."

She feels a twinge of irritation tickling her brain at his calmness, and retorts back with almost as much sarcasm as twang, "Why thank yewh, doctor! That's mighty kind of y'all. I was feelin' a wee bit peaked, I reckon."

She swears she hears a small sigh from the other side of the door, "I have a few rather pressing matters that require my attention. I must leave you on your own for a few hours. You will find breakfast and coffee waiting for you outside. Feel free to call room service for something different, if you like. Grits, or perhaps a mess of biscuits?" He pauses. When she does not reply, he continues, "We are registered under the pseudonyms Dr. and Mrs. Cato, by the way. Virgil and Beatrice. I shall return as soon as I am able."

Clarice waits until she hears to door close. _Asshole!_ Her irritation is morphing into simmering anger, and she knows herself well enough to know that it will most likely boil over into outright rage while he's away. Taking a few deep breaths, she settles her nerves and opens the door. In the bright light of day, the suite appears even more opulent than she remembered from the night before. _Nothing but the best for Hannibal Lecter._ She tries not to think about where she fits into that equation, but she can't help the train of thought. _He likes music, he likes food and wine, he likes art, and he likes me. He also likes to kill._ But, he didn't actually kill Krendler. That's what's throwing her off. By the book, or rather the profile, he should have finished the job himself. That's what serial killers do. That's what they are _compelled_ to do. So why? _He told me he wouldn't. He doesn't lie._ She would have killed Krendler, had he not stopped her. He gives her free will only to take it away again. Such hubris! She feels her wrath rising, and throws her coffee mug against the wall with all of her might.

After a few more shattered dishes, she feels the first waves of anger dissipate. It won't be the last, but she has the presence of mind to think once more. _Simplicity. What is his nature? Hubris . . . he is pride. What is your nature, Clarice? Wrath . . . I am rage. We've faced hell. What's left? How do we break the cycle?_ The windows in her mind align, and she sees beyond the boundaries of her own experience, into his. Spying an open laptop on the mahogany desk, Clarice does a bit of quick detective work. She's very, very good at that. She has a plan. He requested that she make a journey with him. It would only be courteous if he returned the favor. At least it's a place to start.

"Hello, this is Mrs. Beatrice Cato," she says into the receiver, fighting her urge to giggle, "I'm planning a bit of a quirky surprise for my husband, and I was wondering if you could help me locate a few essentials?" The conversation isn't as difficult as she imagines, and the concierge assures her that between house keeping, the gift shop, and the hotel spa, they should be able to provide her with all she needs.

Thirty minutes later, she hears a knock at the door. _Wow, that was faster than I thought!_ Gathering the items, she sets about making her preparations for the good doctor's return.

* * *

When he opens the door, Hannibal Lecter is surprised to find the curtains drawn, leaving the room quite dark, save for a few candles. From the ambient light in the hall, he sees three towels arranged neatly on the floor leading to their suite. Puzzled, he switches on the foyer light and steps over the towels, first white, then black, then finally red. The path leads him to a small table, moved from its original location near the window. Two boxes rest on the table, the silver and gold gift boxes that he had given to Clarice, harboring her gifts. Her choices. He is intrigued, a rare state for the doctor. Aside from her continued presence, this is Clarice's greatest gift to her companion.

He opens the silver box, and finds a small silver key. He finds a gold key in the second box. Searching his Memory Palace, he moves to the great ballroom dedicated to Dante. The scene is beautiful and terrible to behold. All of the occupants within the circles beyond the melancholy beauty of Limbo pay their eternal penance. _We're past this place._ His gaze moves past the center, down Lucifer's ragged fur and falls to the shore of Purgatorio. Clarice emerges then, from within his mind and within the room. The acrid smoke he sensed when first entering their suite mellows. Sandalwood. Calm. He smiles then. He is both profoundly pleased and utterly overwhelmed by her gesture.

"Will you join me, Hannibal?" She asks, touching his forehead with her fingertip and moving down, then looping. He smells her blood.

"Yes," he whispers. It is her turn to smile. He feels the tiny sting of a fine needle. She moves the tip of his finger to her forehead and traces the letter 'P' in his blood, mirroring her mark on his own head. She then places a large stone in his hand.

"Pride, Clarice?" He says, quirking a brow.

"Of course, Hannibal. What else?"

"And for you my dear, Wrath . . . " he muses. "Yes, you've chosen well."

"Our sins have warped our love into that which causes harm to others," she says, "together, is it possible to purge our sins and find peace?"

He sighs, "That is the question. Do you believe in reparation?"

"I believe in mercy. You granted that to Krendler."

"Yes."

"Because of me. You promised me you wouldn't kill him. You don't lie."

"Yes."

"Then I guess that makes me your mercy. If I remain with you, I have the power to still your hand?"

"Possibly. And what of you, Little Starling? What may I grant you in return?"

"Can you be my peace? My love?"

He considers. Hannibal Lecter rarely indulges in hypothesis, or hope. He had hoped for this moment for so very long. Yet, he would not enter such a covenant lightly. She's asking him to stop. Can she be his mercy? Perhaps, but for how long? They may yet be the death of each other.

"We may never reach the earthly paradise, or that which lies beyond, Clarice."

"It's the journey that interests me, Hannibal, not the destination. We'll never know unless we try. I will walk with you on this path as long as it takes," she says, extending her hand, "will you walk with me?"

Swiftly, he takes her proffered hand and wraps her in a fierce embrace. She needs no more answer than this.

* * *

A/N – No, this isn't the end! I can't just leave them hanging without a good old-fashioned bit of lemony goodness, so stay tuned! Plus, they do actually have a couple more loose ends . . .

Again, thanks for your patience with my sporadic updates. If you want to know where Clarice found her inspiration for her symbolic journey, read or Wiki Dante's _Purgatorio_. It's an interesting place; one in which I would argue many of us find ourselves daily. Definitely, definitely worth a read.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14 – Burying the Past

Clarice wakes in the light of the early afternoon. _He must have let me sleep in._ She takes a moment to reorient herself in the midst of her new surroundings. The house is amazing, and she'll give him credit where credit is due. They spent part of the grand tour arguing on the previous night in a mock argument about it. Hannibal maintained that the rental property was adequate for the time being, but that they would search for more suitable accommodations once settled in their new homeland. Clarice would be content to spend the rest of her days in this place, in this home, anywhere with him.

She stretches, remembering his admonition to slow down and take as much time as she wished in sleeping, eating, and enjoying life. They'd spent an often exciting and sometimes harrowing four weeks on the road, taking back country roads and moving slowly through small towns along rural highways. Low profile. That is their _modus operandi_. Blending in where ever they traveled, she is even more impressed with his skills than she was during her hunt. The doctor is a chameleon. He maintains that she is a rather quick study, though it is paramount that they work on her accent and on her language skills. Spanish fluency is critical in her new home, Buenos Aires. That became apparent at their first and most crucial border crossing from the United States into Mexico. Between nerves and stammering Spanglish, she'd almost blown their cover. After that, subsequent crossings and safe passage were purchased with Lecter's vast financial resources.

When they arrived the previous morning, the doctor encouraged her to make herself comfortable while he attended to their basic needs of food, clothing, and finances, having taken care of shelter by phone while traveling. His ideas of 'basic' left Clarice outfitted in fine fabrics and surfeited on fresh seafood and fine wine. She'd been too stressed on the road and too tired the night before to consider her other basic need. Strange, at least to her, that the doctor hadn't broached the subject since their departure from Maryland. _I'm with him, I've made my feelings clear, so isn't sex the next obvious step?_ She sighed, swinging her legs over the bed and finding her slippers. _Well, Jesus please us, if he puts this much thought into the comfort of my feet, you'd think he could work out how else to please me!_ She takes a deep breath and decides to use a direct approach after showering, dressing, and finding the man. Her man.

A clean and groomed Clarice Starling strolls from her bedroom to the kitchen and finds coffee, chicken empanadas, and fresh fruit. She helps herself and is savoring a bite of local peach when she hears the doctor call greetings from the front door. She cringes a bit. _Oh hell, is he a morning person?_ She's willing to bet he has the same presence and demeanor no matter the hour. No matter. It is a small thing. Not at all a deal breaker, especially given all of the other shit they've been through.

"Good afternoon, Clarice," he says as he enters the kitchen. He takes her in with his eyes and by her scent. Moving with slow and deliberate steps, he takes her hand and squeezes gently, and savors both touch and sound as she sighs.

"And to you, Hannibal," she replies, brushing his cheek with her lips. Two can tease.

"I've previewed a few properties in an effort to find more suitable accommodations for us," he says, taking the seat next to her. "Perhaps you would like to join me and have a look as well? We are fortunate that so many sizeable homes are available in some of the more attractive areas within the city."

"We've been traveling for days and we only just settled in _this_ house!" She's tired and cranky. She's getting even more irascible in the face of his calm.

"It will take some time to have the home _we_ choose remodeling and furnished to our specifications. This place is home for now. Any place where you are, my dear, is home." He grins. He's baiting her. It's working.

"Well," she grumbles, "let's go, then! Might as well. I'm up now."

"After you," he says, bowing. When she leaves the kitchen, he prepares a travel mug filled with more coffee. Thinking twice, he prepares another. They'll likely both need it.

* * *

The doctor notes that Clarice is calmer and more agreeable after time in the open air. Perhaps the second cup of coffee helped as well. In response, he adjusts his home tour agenda and takes her to a beautiful manor with a particularly attractive terrace. He notes the ease of Clarice Starling's gait as they stroll the grounds, follows her eyes as they covet this particular nook, that lovely mirror left by the previous occupants, the echo of her voice as it lilts down the staircase. They've found their home, he knows. He gives her more time to discover this for herself as he asks the real estate agent for some privacy to look over the grounds and discuss the merits of the property with his companion. The man agrees, hungry for a sale, yet graceful enough to tell the doctor that they have plenty of time. After the agent departs, Hannibal Lecter returns to their car to retrieve several items from the trunk. He then seats himself in the dining room and pretends to peruse the tentative contract while waiting for Clarice. He doesn't wait long.

Her footfalls tell him that she is eager but doesn't want to appear eager. He is pleased. He is able to read her this time. It isn't always the case, and that is one of a thousand reasons that this woman captivates him. She frightens him at times, too. That is both disconcerting and refreshing. He looks up and smiles.

"This is it," she says simply. He nods.

"How long before we can move in?" she asks.

"So eager, little Starling? We only just settled into the home we currently occupy," he deadpans with ease, but allows a small twinkle to escape from his eyes.

That twinkle is endearing to Clarice. She knows that those eyes have held and beheld much sorrow, coldness, and cruelty. That she can bring forth such a simple expression of playfulness and joy is a treasure. She doesn't even roll her eyes in response. This time.

"How long?" she asks again.

"One month, perhaps two. It depends on how much we wish to remodel. I have specifics in mind for the kitchen- "

"Of course you do," she deadpans back.

Nonplussed, he continues, "And two of the bedrooms on the upper floor could be merged to make space for a library. But, those renovations should not prevent us from living here in the interim."

"How much?" she asks. She is testing him. She doesn't like the idea of being a kept woman. Her background and her pride dictate that he tread lightly. He passes her the contract and waits. Her eyes widen, and she passes it back. "You have that much?"

"We have that much and more. Tomorrow, I will familiarize you with our various accounts and how to access them, as well as our primary and secondary identities. We will also set aside a time for language lessons. Daily." He pauses, and then produces another set of documents.

"What are these?" she asks. Her tone is neutral. Her body language is not.

"Information on how to access your private account. Look here," he points to instructions a third of the way down the page, "you should logon and change your password as soon as possible. Once completed, the balance is yours and yours alone."

"If I leave?" she asks. No need to be coy.

"The money is yours and yours alone, Clarice."

She nods and places the documents in her handbag. "I want to stay here, in this house, with you."

"Very well," he says. "Would you join me in the garden?"

"Of course," she says. They walk out the back door and onto the private grounds, following a stone path. After a few moments, Hannibal takes her hand and leads her off the path and into the shadow of a mesquite tree. She sees a small hole in the ground within the shadow.

"What's this?" she asks.

He turns to face her. "Are you sure you want to stay here?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies. Her brow furrows with confusion. _What is he up to?_

"If this place is hold our future, then it is only fitting that we bury our pasts here," he says. He directs her to a large and ornate wooden box sitting at the base of the tree. Opening it, she is greeted by her father's bones, neatly wrapped in silk. "You were unable to attend your father's internment in Texas?"

She nods. She doesn't have words right now. Only tears.

Clarice Starling watches as Hannibal Lecter places her teacup, carefully glued and pieced together, into the wooden box. She strokes her pendant encasing the shard from that cup, now suspended from the chain around her neck. He's saying goodbye, too. With reverence, he closes the lid and begins to lift the box. She joins him, brushing his hand as she supports one side. Together, they plant the box in the ground. Wordless, they toss handfuls of earth over the wood, and then the doctor completes the burial with shovel and muscle.

"We'll find a suitable marker for this site, Clarice. In the meantime, perhaps some flowers?"

"No," she says simply, "this is enough."

"Shall we?" he asks, offering his hand.

"Yes, let's go home."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 15 – Coming Home

Clarice Starling wakes in the darkness, feeling the fog of sleep lift from her mind and body. She notes the impression left by her companion on the right side of the bed and on his pillow. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, catching traces of his scent. After returning from the impromptu private funeral, Hannibal Lecter had wordlessly led her to her bedroom, tucked her in, and stroked her hair until she drifted off to sleep. Apparently he'd remained by her side for a bit longer, though she doubts that he slept. Seems as though she would have to admonish him to relax a bit more as well. She smiles to herself at the thought.

The doctor is lost in his own thoughts when he hears her stirring in the room above. He moves to the kitchen and pours two glasses of champagne. Celebrations are in order, and he plans to greet her with a toast to their new home, offer accepted by current occupants and ready for their arrival in two weeks time, to their new city, and their new life. Turning the corner with two glasses in hand, the sight that greets him takes his breath away. His lady descends the staircase clad in a sheer robe of emerald green satin, her pendant and cabochon emerald earrings, and nothing else. Hannibal captures the image, which he knows will occupy a prominent place within the palace of his mind for as long as he lives. Naturally, he had an elaborate plan for this evening, one that involved fine food and wine, intimate conversation, perhaps their first dance as the gateway to more sensual explorations, but his Clarice apparently has other ideas. She surprises him again, and will no doubt continue to do so in the coming days, weeks, months . . . dare he hope for years? Hope is for later, he decides. Peace is for now. She asked him for that, not so long ago. Perhaps there can be peace for both of them.

Clarice is pleased by his reaction. She hears him gasp, sees his eyes dilate, such unusual eyes. So much of Hannibal Lecter is rare and unique, words she prefers to use in reference to the doctor, though the more crude epithets of 'freak' and 'monster' enter her mind unbidden. She shakes them away, along with the other voices of colleagues, friends, and foes past. They no longer dominate her mind or her life. Ironically, nor does his voice. She is pleased beyond measure to realize that her internal voice is her own, as is her will. That is his gift to her. Yes, he is a rare and wonderful being, almost otherworldly. Almost. Now, she will remind Hannibal Lecter that he still is, among other things, a man.

Hannibal Lecter remains perfectly still as she approaches. She stands before him and waits. He arches a brow before offering her a glass of champagne, which she accepts. He raises his glass and asks, "Shall we toast to new beginnings?"

"How about to firsts?" she replies, with a sly smile.

"To firsts, then," he says, and they both drink.

"You look stunning," he says in a tone that Clarice finds irritatingly conversational, as he might use when commenting on the weather.

"And you're overdressed," she replies with the same tone.

"Feeling a bit warm, Clarice?"

"You have no idea."

"I think I might," he says, returning her smile at last, "Shall we go for a swim?"

_That is the absolute last fucking straw._ "Hannibal Lecter, I am going to retire to my room now. I expect you there in exactly five minutes, sporting the rest of that absolutely divine champagne, and _nothing _else. Have I been in any way unclear?"

"Not at all, my dear," he replies. She nods and turns to leave, when she hears his voice utter softly, "Keep the robe. For now."

* * *

Clarice hears him enter her room, and it takes a monumental effort on her part to resist running and jumping directly into his arms. No doubt he had some big production planned for tonight, so he's probably a little annoyed. Well, if she already has his blood up a bit, so to speak, then all the better. Seated at her dressing table, she allows her robe to fall open a bit, exposing more cleavage. Maybe she reveals a little more thigh as she rubs lavender scented lotion on her skin, or perhaps it is simply a happy accident.

She gasps when she feels his breath on the nape of her neck, so swift and silent is his movement. He kisses her neck and shoulder and then kneels before her, taking the bottle of lotion from her hands and whispering, "May I?" He's settled the champagne bottle and his glass next to hers on the dressing table, though she notes that he's still wearing pants. Granted, they are silk pajama pants, but she's still annoyed. She'd been pretty clear in her instructions. His breath on her knee, not to mention the sight of his bare chest, give her reason enough to set her irritation aside. For now.

"Yes," she breathes, and he warms a pea-sized dollop in his hands and applies it to her right leg with slow and firm strokes from her ankle to just below her knee. He pays special attention to her calves in deference to any residual soreness from her daily runs. Lecter repeats the procedure with her left leg, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on her knee. Clarice tentatively places her hands on his head, caressing his hair and imploring him with her eyes. He rises to his knees and gently parts her thighs, allowing him to lean in and plant a whisper of a kiss on her lips. He's clearly in no hurry, so she takes it upon herself to deepen the kiss, moving her hands from his hair down his shoulder and arms.

He breaks the kiss, but stills her protests by warming more lotion and bidding her to drop her robe and expose her shoulders as he rises to stand behind her. She manages to keep her breasts covered for the moment. Two can tease.

He's amused, and a little amazed, by her tenacity and will. The sight and scent of her are sorely testing his self-control, but he enjoys sparring with a worthy adversary. He uses the same sensual movements to massage her shoulders and neck, enjoying the sighs and groans of appreciation she gives him for his trouble. He moves his hands back over her shoulders and brushes her bare collarbones, lower and lower, but not quite where she longs for his fingertips to venture. When he moves his hands back to her shoulders, she unties her robe and allows it to fall from her body and drape over her chair.

"Clarice," he rasps. He doesn't move from his position behind her, but he gently maneuvers her chair so that she faces the mirror above her dressing table. Warming more lotion in his skilled fingers, he massages her arms; back up her shoulders, down her neck and over her breasts. When she closes her eyes, she feels his breath in her ear as he whispers, "Open your eyes for me if you want me to continue."

She opens her eyes and looks at his face in the mirror, quirking an eyebrow in inquiry. He stares back at her reflection and says, "Look at me while I love you."

She does as she's told, eyes widening and breath quickening as he resumes slowly teasing her sensitive nipples. Each time her eyelids flutter, Lecter stops, much to her consternation. "Hannibal," she sighs, "I'm trying, but . . . Ooooooh," she gasps as he moves his hands to the juncture between her legs, lightly stroking her folds as he flashes a wicked smile at her.

"Having some difficulty concentrating, my dear?" he asks with mock innocence, moving one hand back to her breast as the other continues to massage her below.

"You . . . are . . . such . . . a . . . Oh my god!"

"No, not quite."

"Monster!"

"So I've been told."

Not missing a beat, Clarice turns her chair, yanks his pants down to his knees, and begins to fondle his already swollen manhood, getting a low groan for her trouble.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"Aaah!"

He grabs her hands and glares at her, "I've a good mind to teach you a lesson, little Starling," he hisses.

Undaunted, she glares back at him and replies, "Perhaps you'll be the one to learn, _doctor_." She manages to wriggle out of his grasp and begins to stroll toward her bed, tossing her head over her shoulder and giving Hannibal Lecter her best 'come hither' look.

For his part, Hannibal Lecter enjoys the view, moving in his own time toward the bed and joining her, sans pants. Clarice Starling sits with her back to the headboard and waits, enjoying her view as well. Both have waited a very long time for this moment, and neither feels like waiting any longer. Slow and tender explorations will be savored later, but at this moment passion and hunger rule. He moves to her swiftly, spreading her legs and lightly tasting her honey. The feel of his lips and tongue, that dangerous mouth, it is beyond exciting. When their eyes meet, each responds to the unspoken request. He pulls her to him and she guides him inside her.

They pause, savoring the moment of consummation, before settling into a steady rhythm. He watches her as long as he is able before the pleasure of their union forces his eyes closed, memorizing the contours of her face, the sounds of her low moans and sighs, the glow of her skin. His treasure, his sanctuary, perhaps his salvation.

They cry aloud in the explosion of pleasure that follows, trembling, bodies intertwined. Clarice opens her eyes, beautiful glimmering jewels brimming with tears, lips trembling with words unspoken.

He blinks, strokes her cheek with soft fingertips and says, "Clarice . . . welcome home."

They succumb to the bliss of sleep that night, still joined and locked in their warm embrace.

* * *

A/N - I hope this chapter was worth the wait! Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews and enthusiasm for the story. It has been a joy to write, and I'm so thrilled that many have found it a joy to read. I promise an epilogue to wrap things up in early 2011. In the meantime, I wish all of you lovely Lecterphiles a safe and happy New Year!

Best wishes,

Demeter :)


	17. Chapter 17

_Epilogue_

A house rests in coastal South America, bathed by a warm breeze wafting through the open terrace doors. Nothing out of the ordinary character of the upscale neighborhood adorns this residence; elegance fills their surrounding as well as each room of their home. The sun will rise soon, though, draping the home and the surrounding city in its gleaming rays, the brilliance of which the home's occupants savor as much as their freedom.

One occupant sleeps while the other watches and waits. He moves from her side with only a moment's hesitation, and walks the corridors to the kitchen. He prepares tea and muses over his provisions. They will likely remain indoors until the late afternoon, but he is will not leave now. They have enough to savor the morning in comfort, of that he is certain. He is sure he and his companion will find suitable amusements in the hours that will follow.

She has healed. His ministrations have eased most of her emotional anguish. She has more yet to face. There will always be more, for both of them. Yet, she remains. He decided to stop listening for her movements throughout their home, the soft cadence of her heartbeat as she rests beside him, months ago; slowly weaning himself from the powerful urge to seek her out and ensure that she is really here. With him. He'd set the framework, completed construction, wound the mainspring such that the gears moved according to the laws of her nature and her own will. What happens each day is not within his power to predict. Chaos. Uncertainty. A dangerous game and a challenge rarely faced by the monster.

But for her, for them, he faces it.

She still sleeps, so he moves to the drawing room to enjoy his tea and the warmth of the morning. He considers the teacup, thinking that she still possesses all of the ammunition she needs to craft his doom, and perhaps their salvation . . . he's placed that thought deep within his Memory Palace, engraved it on the lock that sometimes bars the doors to the depths, though it can do nothing for the reeking breaths released by the oubliettes.

She, and only she can give him ease from them.

He seats himself at the harpsichord, without thoughts of bitter cold and snow from long ago. He plays now with passion, eyes blazing as he controls the sounds echoing through their home. They call to her.

He smiles when he feels his arms envelop him, and he turns to penetrate her sphere, invade the space around her. He breathes her in, and she tightens her embrace.

"Good morning, my love."

"Hmm, good morning Hannibal."

Fin

* * *

A/N – I apologize for taking so long to wrap this one up. Part of the delay was due to, as many of you know, my pursuit of original fiction. My first novel might be published soon! (FYI – several ePublishers and a few traditionals accept unagented, direct author submissions. If anyone out there ever wants some advice, I'd be happy to share my experiences – the good, bad, and ugly, and honest. A lot of y'all have entirely too much talent not to give it a try!)

Part of the delay was also due to the fact that I get all sad and stuff when I end a story. It's stupid. I know. I can always write more (and will). But, I owe you folks who've reviewed and talked me out of plot holes (*ahem, Miss Jewel) a heartfelt thank you. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Duffie and the Major, who've become betas for my original stuff and helped me polish it until it's shone enough to garner attention from a few agents and publishers.

Writing is a joy, and it brings me even more joy when I know it has touched and inspired others. For that, I thank you all.


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